


Shackled

by marksmanfem



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Biting, Blood, Cursing (duh), Dean Winchester - Freeform, Demon dean dub con, Demon!Dean, Depression, Drama, Dreams, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Grieving, Hallucinations, In other words Sam’s tendency to be a Winchester, Loss, Mentions of Suicide Attempt, Mind fuckery, Oral Sex, Original Character - Freeform, Original Female Character - Freeform, Psychological Manipulation, Psychological Torture, Questioning Sanity, Sam Winchester - Freeform, Sam’s tendency to leave out vital details for folks helping him to save Dean, Show level violence, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Violent Sex, amirite?, bit of torture, consuming blood, demon dean being an asshole (surprise), demon!dean sex, dub con, dubcon, emotional exhaustion, enjoying torture, fucking Winchesters, is it all in her head, pushing another to commit suicide, was it a dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:13:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 22,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22880836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marksmanfem/pseuds/marksmanfem
Summary: After nearly ten years, Sam Winchester calls Miriam Bard to collect on a life debt. Unfortunately for Miriam, Sam leaves out a few important details.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Incog_Ninja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Incog_Ninja/gifts).



> This story would not be possible without Incog_Ninja , who convinced me to write and finish this story, cheered me on every step of the way, and convinced me that even after over a year of not finishing a single thing, I hadn’t lost my writing after all. MJ, thank you for poking the story til it squeaked. And for the banner. And lots and lots of other things. If you’re reading this, hi! Have a seat and strap in, it’s gonna be a bumpy ride (in the best way!). Check me out on tumblr @ItMightHaveBeenIntentional !

_“Hey, Miriam, it’s Sam...Sam Winchester...I don’t know if you remember me from-”_

_“I remember you, Sam. Not likely to forget a Winchester, much less...it’s one in the morning, what’s up?”_

_“I need to call in that favor.”_

_“All right. Where do you need me?”_

…

Miriam stared blearily at the road as it stretched out in an infinite blur of dismal sameness, each expanse of asphalt and surrounding fields a dreary replica of the one before. 

The last couple hundred or so miles had been hypnotically wretched, especially with the remnants of her headache hanging on by the tips of its claws since Sam Winchester had woken her with a phone call a few hours ago. 

Caffeine and aspirin had taken the edges off, but straining her eyes into the endless darkness, alternating occasionally with too-bright headlights shattering the night ( _fucking halogens_ ), had done nothing to ease the sharp ache that wouldn’t quite dissipate.

If she was being honest, the headache had been hanging around much longer than just a few hours, and if Sam’s call hadn’t woken her, the nightmares would have. They always did. She couldn’t really remember what an uninterrupted night of sleep felt like anymore. Exhaustion was her state of existence; it was preferable to feeling anything else.

“Suck it up, Miri,” she muttered into the muffled quiet of the car. Even her GPS was set on silent; the soft hum of the engine was the only noise she allowed to permeate her cocoon of quiet suffering. 

Aaron would have been blasting some stupid metal band on the stereo, slapping her hand away every time she went to turn it down or change the station. He wouldn’t offer to drive and let her sleep off any physical maladies, but she wouldn’t have accepted anyway. He was a shit driver, and she always said she’d rather live long enough to let the next case kill her rather than the inevitable wreck if her brother was behind the wheel.

“Suck it up, Miri! Take another pill and quit whining!” he would have told her in the middle of an air drum solo.

_Would have_.

“Shut up,” Miriam muttered aloud. She drove on.

She pulled up outside something she would have dismissed as public waterworks or an electric station if Sam hadn’t told her what to look for. No cars outside, no mailbox, nothing to tell her this was an actual residence and not the setting for a seventies slaughterhouse flick. She checked her phone.

_Text me when you get here; I’ll come let you in._

Alrighty, then.

Sam met her at the door and led her into the last sort of place Miriam could have imagined, a cross between a sci-fi/post-apocalypse novel and some sort of Cold War relic. He gave her the briefest of explanations as he led her through the bunker, saying something about legacies and a secret society, information which mostly passed right through her fatigue-addled head. 

_Pretty nice home base_ , she thought as they walked through the meeting room and past the library. 

The research-oriented part of her itched to run her fingers over the spines of those books, to find out what was inside. Miriam cringed internally as she heard the echo of Aaron’s voice calling her a nerd, equal parts affection and ridicule in his voice. Then she throttled the pain down, locked the thoughts away, and dragged herself back to the present.

A few minutes later, Miriam was slinging her duffel down on one of the nicest beds she’d been able to claim in any capacity in months, maybe even years. Absolutely spartan and about six decades out of date, almost military in decor, but it was clean, and it had air, electricity, and both sheets _and_ blankets on the bed. No nasty or rotten surprises left by former inhabitants; definitely an upgrade on a few of the shitholes she’d stayed in.

“We’ve got a fully stocked kitchen just down the hallway, and showers. Let me know if you need anything,” Sam said, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly. 

Miriam decided to save him further discomfort and cut to the chase.

“Fancy digs, Sam. It’s been a few years. You wanna tell me what’s got you so bothered?” 

She’d noticed a distinct lack of the elder Winchester on the way in, but Miriam’s own recent history had done nothing if not jam a filter firmly in her mouth that kept her from sharing any and all thoughts that flowed through her mind.

Sam’s mouth quivered at the corners before he schooled his features into a mask of control that failed to hide the depth of his worry. 

“I...Dean is why I called you. It’s...complicated.”

She took advantage of the awkward pause to re-evaluate Sam Winchester. He’d aged a lot in the few years since she and Aaron had run across the Winchesters. He’d grown broader since she last saw him, and he gave the impression of being even taller than she remembered, to say nothing of the length of his hair. She resisted the urge to offer him a hair tie for his shaggy mane. 

Her gaze flicked down to his injured right arm, bound to his chest in a sling. She waited for several beats, but when he didn’t continue, she crossed her arms sternly, letting a shade of her impatience show on her face.

“ _You_ called _me_ , Sam.”

Sam cleared his throat as if he still couldn’t get the words out. Miriam sighed. Her headache flared, burning the inside of her skull like a wash of acid between her eyes. Fatigue pulled at her, weighing her down towards the bed, but she locked her knees and straightened her back until she could trust her weary body not to betray her to gravity.

“Sam, we’re not close friends, I get that, but you called me here because I owe you, and hopefully because you know you can count on me. I haven’t been in the field recently, wasn’t planning on it any time soon. I’m tired; it’s been a hell of a year. If you want my help, talk to me. If not, I’m taking advantage of your hospitality to catch a few hours sleep in a decent bed, then I’ll head back out.”

“Dean’s a demon.”

His bald declaration woke her as the coffee she’d consumed after his phone call hadn’t. 

_Wasn’t expecting that_ , she thought as her eyebrows threatened to meet her hairline.

“Demons aren’t my area of expertise, Sam. And, let’s be honest, it’s fairly common knowledge that the Winchesters can exorcise a demon. What do you need me for?”

Sam shook his head, tension making the movement jerky and stiff as his jaw tightened. He had circles under his eyes to rival hers, and his shoulders slumped with a weight she knew all too well. 

He reached up, awkwardly tugging down the neckline of his shirt to reveal a tattooed symbol she vaguely recalled from research she’d done years ago. 

“Neither of us can be possessed,” he said, shrugging his shirt back into place with a wince of discomfort. “Dean is...Look, just come with me; I need to check on him anyway. You'll see.”

Making a physical effort to keep her jaw from hanging slack, Miriam followed Sam from the small bedroom. The whole situation was surreal, and the bland, institutional walls of the bunker only added to Miriam’s sense of dissociation. 

She raised a curious eyebrow as Sam led her into what looked like nothing so much as a large file storage room. 

Their footsteps echoed strangely; the space felt somehow emptier than the full shelves should have allowed. The ceiling, higher than what seemed necessary, continued much further back than the shelves. And what kind of shelving needed caging to connect it to the ceiling? The metal screen wasn’t what drew her attention, though.

The second she set foot in the room, Miriam felt an inexplicable pull to look behind those shelves, to push past Sam and shove the files out of the way. There was a presence in the room, something that spoke to a place deep inside her that she’d trained herself not to acknowledge, something familiar and forbidden all at once. 

For the first time in months, she felt something more than tired, foggy despair. 

Whatever was back there, Miriam _wanted_ it.

It took her a second to realize that Sam was speaking.

“Don’t...um...don’t let him get to you, okay? It’s Dean, but it...isn’t,” Sam finished lamely with a grimace. 

Miriam tilted her head to the side, considering his words. She opened her mouth, then closed it and shrugged, bracing herself for whatever it was Sam didn’t seem to be able to explain. 

His shoulders slumped for a moment as he struggled to pull himself together. 

Miriam hadn’t spent much time with the Winchesters, just the couple of weeks they'd worked that witch case all those years ago. Sam and Dean had been so in tune with each other, working the case with instinct and skill on a level that she’d both admired and envied. Then they went and saved her stupid brother. 

Sam had been so much younger, then, not exactly sure of himself, but much more solid and in control than the tired, injured man in front of her.

“I owe you, and I mean it,” she’d said back then, shaking first Dean’s and then Sam’s hands, looking each brother in the eyes. 

“You need someone to watch your back, to help you take something down, I’ll be there. I wouldn’t normally speak for that asshole,” she nodded at her younger brother, currently sleeping off the leftover ill effects from the hex bag that had nearly taken his life, “but I’ll go ahead and vouch for his dumb ass, too. Call me if you need me. Don’t lose my number.”

She hadn’t heard from them since. 

Oh, she had heard plenty _of_ them. What hunter hadn’t? All sorts of misadventures and exploits, taking down creatures most hunters had only ever heard of, much less encountered. But Miriam had gotten no phone calls from them, no requests for help. She figured they'd probably forgotten her and Aaron the moment they’d left town, rock blasting from the speakers of their legendary Impala as they cruised on to the next town, the next case.

“Why now, Sam?” Miriam asked quietly. “After all this time, why call me now?” 

There were approximately a thousand more questions she wanted to ask, chiefly what the cage behind those shelves was holding, but she held her tongue after the one. Sam had obviously brought her here for a reason, so she reminded herself to be patient and ready for whatever happened next.

The younger Winchester hung his head for a moment longer, then turned eyes on her that were so familiar, her heart seized in her chest. She saw those same eyes every time she’d looked at her own reflection in the mirror since she’d returned from that last job, with one more scar and one less brother. 

“Because I knew you’d understand.”

And then Sam straightened, and she watched as he willed steel through his limbs, stiffening his spine and hardening his features. He pulled on a narrow section of shelving and rolled it out of the way.

“Heya, Sammy.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the warnings in the tags.

The wave of sheer malevolence that rolled over Miriam nearly knocked her from her feet, and she only just kept from throwing her arms up in defense. 

Nothing was coming at her, no weapons, no attacks or enemies. But the sense that something in this room was absolutely wrong couldn’t be denied any more than she could deny the mental and physical effort she had to exert just to stay by Sam’s side.

_Torn_ , she thought, eyes darting around the enclosure. She wanted to bolt from the room, from the whole bunker, find the furthest cave, and bury herself in it. 

And yet...

Moment by moment, she had to fight the urge to walk straight over to the man bound to the chair not fifteen feet away, a chair she couldn't help but notice was bolted to the floor. 

What the hell did she think she’d do when she got there, exactly? Where was this coming from? 

Her stomach twisted as she forced herself to breathe normally, to ignore the flush rising through her skin, and really look around the newly revealed room.

_Dungeon_ , her scattered mind projected. _The Winchesters have a dungeon_.

A massive devil's trap, much larger than any of the few she’d seen, was painted on the floor. The sigils were painted in black against the grayish white of the floor; detailed, huge, and precise, the mystical symbols couldn’t help but draw her gaze. She examined the lines for a long moment, studiously ignoring the one thing in the room she suddenly needed to look at. 

“My eyes are up here, sweetheart.”

Dean Winchester had aged a little better than his brother, but he’d obviously weathered some tough times, as well. That his arms were both cuffed and tied to the chair in which he was sitting, his eyes blacked out in true demonic presence, did nothing to ease every instinct within Miriam that screamed for her to run. 

Sure, Sam had said his brother was a demon, but…still. Dean Winchester, _the_ Dean 

Winchester, an actual demon? That wasn’t a fact that could be conveyed through simple words.

“Gretel, it’s been too long. Where’s Hansel? Did a mean old witch toss him in an oven yet?” 

The demon smirked at his wit, and Miriam felt her lips drawing back in an involuntary snarl, but Sam’s earlier words echoed in her head, and she throttled down the instinct to find a very swift end to this abomination. Nostrils flaring, she cracked her neck slowly to one side, then the other, closing her eyes for a two-count before opening them again. 

Dean watched her, head cocked inquisitively, showing the first signs of real interest since she and Sam had walked in. His obsidian eyes narrowed as he gave her a thorough once over. His gaze lingered on her neck, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he took in the ruined skin, the pulse beating along the column of her throat. When he spoke again, his velvet tone throbbed in her veins, even as his words sent her stomach spiraling.

“Nah, I think the big bad wolf found you both. Ate up baby brother and started in on you for dessert. Bet he thought you were real sweet. Wouldn’t mind sinkin’ my teeth into that neck, either.”

Sam’s hand on her shoulder brought her back to herself, out of the rushing void. She blinked, cleared her throat, tasted blood.

_When did I bite my cheek?_ she thought. 

She shook her head like a dog shedding water, and suddenly she was back with herself. She glanced at Sam, looking for guidance on what to do next. Every hunter instinct she had screamed at her to drown Dean in a vat of holy water, or behead him at the very least. Anything to not look into those eyes again.

Those empty, black eyes that pulled when they should repel, that called to her to jump into the abyss rather than backing away from the precipice like any sane person should. 

But Sam, the same man who didn’t hesitate to tackle the witch about to finish Aaron off as Dean set fire to the hex bag all those years ago, was frozen in place, his mouth a thin, painful line as his red eyes shone wetly under the harsh lighting. Then he cleared his throat and looked away from his brother as he arranged some flasks on the metal table nearby.

“Dean, I’ve gotta get some supplies for the ritual. It’ll take me a couple of days. Miriam is going to watch you, keep you...company. Then we’re gonna fix this.”

The harsh, gritty laugh that rumbled up from Dean’s chest was as amused as it was mocking.

“Are you still on that crusade, Sam? I don’t need a babysitter. Let me go, and we’ll just forget this whole brainless little scheme of yours. I don’t need fixing.” Dean grinned wider as his brother visibly flinched. “Ain’t broken, Sammy. Just improved.”

Sam’s lips pinched together hard, his eyebrows drawing down sharply, but he didn’t reply, instead turning his attention to Miriam. 

“I know it sounds crazy, but we’ve figured out a way to cure demons. I can get my brother back, but it’s not gonna be easy. I have to go get the materials, some kind of specialized stuff, and it may take me a few days. I need your help; our other...friend is dealing with something and can’t get back here, and somebody has to watch Dean while I’m gone, just in case.”

Miriam glanced disbelievingly between the two brothers, one very obviously at the breaking point, if not well past it, and the other seemingly bored despite being chained down. 

She took an unconscious step towards Dean before she could stop herself, then planted her feet hard. _What the hell was that?_ she thought. 

Dean eyed her speculatively for a moment, taking in her odd internal struggle. His nostrils flared briefly as he inhaled, and a smirk began to curl at the corner of his mouth.

“I think we need to talk in the hallway for a sec, Sam,” Miriam said, her lips pressed into a thin, tense line.

Sam huffed out a breath, and Miriam could see he was relieved she wasn’t outright refusing. As he led the way back to the hall, she glanced at Dean. He’d reverted to his natural appearance; warm, clear green eyes sparkled across the room as he winked at her. 

“See ya soon, sweetheart.”

She shuddered and hurried after Sam.

The air in the hallway was by no means the fresh air she’d prefer, but it was bracing and clear after the tense, conflicting atmosphere she’d left behind. She took a moment to gather herself, to get her overwhelmed thoughts into some sort of order. Before she could find her words, though, Sam broke the silence with the last thing she expected or wanted to hear right now.

“I heard about Aaron. I’m so sorry, Miriam. I know it’s a rough time for you right now, but-”

“That's not the point, Sam,” she interrupted before he could finish, irritation and pain flaring hot in her chest. “You said you needed my help. That implies there’s something I can even do here. You want me to watch Dean, but what the hell do you think I can do if he gets out? I can’t hold back a demon by myself! You could’ve warned me, saved me the trip!”

“He won’t get out,” Sam said, his fingers clenching reflexively on the edge of his sling, and he grimaced. “The cuffs are inscribed with runes, and he’s inside a devil’s trap; you know those will hold demons as long as the lines are intact. Those flasks on the table back there are loaded up with holy water. Anything happens, you run like hell, call me, and I’ll be back here as soon as I can.”

He stepped into her space suddenly, and she was overwhelmed by the sheer size of him. He grasped her shoulder with his good hand, leaning down to hold her gaze. His desperation was etched into every line of his face, and she felt a sudden, unexpected affinity to Sam Winchester.

“I had no one else I could trust. I knew if I told you the whole situation over the phone, you might not come. But I never forgot you and your brother, and I never forgot your promise. I knew, out of the few people I could turn to, that you were the only one who’d understand that I’m going to do everything I can to save Dean.”

Sam’s fingers dug into Miriam’s shoulder blade, but she didn’t flinch, holding his gaze for a long, weighted moment. Then she nodded. He was right. Of everything that had happened since she answered the phone seven hours ago, this was perhaps the one thing she really, truly understood.

“You’re gonna have to load me up with holy water, though. Maybe a water gun to hold it. You got a Super Soaker lyin’ around somewhere?”

Sam coughed out a sudden laugh and released her. 

“I can do you one better,” he said. 

He reached behind his back to pull out a knife from a hidden sheath. He held it out to her handle-first, and her eyebrows shot up as she took in the inscribed, serrated blade. She’d heard stories about that knife, but she never thought she’d actually see it, much less hold it.

“Shit, Sam, I knew you respected me, but I didn’t know you actually cared.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed warnings in tags.

“Two days at the absolute longest,” Sam said for the third time as he awkwardly zipped his bag with his off-hand. Miriam gave him a look, and he sighed.

“I know. I’m sorry. The kitchen has plenty of supplies; your room is near enough that you should be able to hear anything, or-”

“Or I can just drag in a mattress and have a good, old-fashioned slumber party. Sam, go. The sooner you leave, the sooner you’ll get back. I’ve got my holy water stash, I’ve got the knife, I’ve got my gun, and I’ve got you on speed dial. Short of a missile launcher or God himself intervening, I think we’re as prepared as we’re going to get.”

Sam let out a sharp breath, dropping his gaze from hers and nodding. He started to say something, then changed his mind and hefted his bag over his good shoulder. He lifted a small cooler from the map table and started towards the stairs. He stopped again, one foot on the bottom step, having some sort of internal debate.

“Miriam,” he finally said, “he’s...don’t let him get to you. It’s really...He can read things off you, get inside your head. He’s gonna find whatever he thinks will hurt you the most and press on it. Hard.”

“From what I remember, Dean was always good at reading people and pressing buttons,” Miriam said. “I’ll be okay, Sam. I’m as forewarned as I can be, all considered.”

“I know what you’re going through, believe me, I do. I wouldn’t ask you if there was anyone else.”

She held up a hand, cutting off his apology. “I get it, Sam. I’ve got you. I’ve got  _ this _ . Go.”

Sam hesitated, his jaw working worriedly. Then he gave her a tight-lipped smile and nodded.

“Right. Call me if you need me.” And then he was gone, leaving Miriam alone in a massive underground bunker with her demons, both inner and otherwise.

…

“You know that gun can’t kill me, right?” 

The smirk wasn’t quite as effective as it had been earlier, but Miriam was a little better prepared. She also had the distinct feeling he wasn’t putting the same effort into it this time.

“Doesn’t have to kill you. Just has to slow you down.”

Dean pursed his lips as he considered, then he nodded in agreement. She kept one eye on him as she slowly circled the room, looking for any important details she might have missed. Nothing loose behind the shelves except the table with its row of holy water flasks. Nothing within the trap that could be used as a weapon.

Of course, there was nothing to worry about anyway because Dean wasn’t getting out. He couldn’t. No way.

Miriam’s finger twitched against the trigger guard.

“You gonna circle all day, honey? Gettin’ dizzy over here.”

The demon sounded bored, of all things, and Miriam realized that she didn’t really know much about demon emotions. Or functions. Or anything, really.

“You gonna need feeding? I’m not walking you to the bathroom, princess.”

She was startled when her snark earned her a genuine smile. He was still in what she’d started thinking of as his human face, and the crinkles of skin next to his eyes were surprisingly appealing. Rough, but endearing. 

_ Strange _ , she thought.  _ Must’ve been too distracted by the case back in the day. Never thought much of you the first time around _ .

“You never thought much of  _ him _ ,” Dean said suddenly, and she glanced at the demon sharply. “Doesn't hold a candle to what you think of  _ me _ . Papa’s got a brand new bag.”

She stared at him, shaken. Was he reading  _ her _ or her thoughts? She didn’t think she was that easy to read, but then again, who knew? The alternative, however, was that he was actually in her head, seeing every little thought, every insecurity, every fear. 

Either way, he was definitely getting under her skin.

“Does that cheesy bullshit work on anyone?” she asked, letting irritation creep into her tone. Not much got through her haze of numbness and fatigue these days, and she wasn’t pleased that Dean had such an inexplicable effect on her.

_ Something to consider when he’s not examining me _ , she thought

His eyes narrowed, and she shook her head, wondering where that bizarre magnetism she’d felt from him earlier had gone. Maybe she’d been delirious from lack of sleep and too much driving. She steeled herself and took a few steps closer, examining his bonds as best she could without touching them.

The inscribed cuffs bound the demon to the arm of the chair on one side. Sam had done a thorough job securing both Dean’s arms and legs with ropes. She had to admit the younger Winchester had been right; short of an earthquake cracking the sigils on the floor, Miriam really couldn’t imagine Dean getting out of his confines.

As she was checking the knots on his arms once more, admiring Sam’s neat work, a mark on the inside of Dean’s forearm caught her eye. It looked burned on, a brand rather than a tattoo. She’d never seen anything like it, but she couldn't help staring, as if-

“Checking up on the goods, darlin’? Feel free to get hands-on, I won’t mind.”

She snorted, straightening her back with an audible pop. Time to get a little rest, put some space between her and the demon. She’d had more than enough of this nonsense for the time being.

“Down, Fido. I’m gonna catch an hour or two. Don’t wake me up unless you want the less fun kind of sponge bath,” she added, flicking her eyes significantly to the table full of holy water. His glare and flared nostrils were answer enough. 

Just to be safe, though, she brought one of the flasks with her.

She didn’t dare go very far yet, not until she was truly sure he couldn't break out. She thought for a moment before pushing the shelves back into place and firmly closing the door behind her. If he got loose, she’d have at least a few moments notice from the noise. 

And this way she didn’t have to fall asleep with him staring a hole through her head. She had enough emotional demons possessing her brain already; no need to add a literal one to the mix.

Miriam settled down in the nest of pillows she’d left in the hallway, doing her best to get comfortable on the floor.  _ Better than a lot of places I’ve slept _ , she admitted as she pulled a blanket up around her shoulders, tilting her head back against the wall. She listened to the whoosh of the air vents, the creaking of the ropes and clanking of handcuffs as Dean tested his bonds again and again, and the eventual growls of frustration as he gave up for the time being.

_ Not so bad _ , she thought before she drifted off.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the warnings in the tags.

Adept fingers probed at the scars on her neck, running over the snarled flesh before circling around to the smooth skin on the other side of her throat to check for injuries.

“It’s fine, Aaron, leave it,” Miriam mumbled, swatting at his hands without bothering to open her eyes. He always worried about her after a hunt, convinced she was hiding a myriad of wounds that she was too proud to tell him about. He’d been the medic of their little team, with gentle, competent skills that surprised everyone except Miriam.

She shivered in the chill air, then sighed contentedly as the blanket was pulled up around her shoulders. 

Strong hands dug into the muscles where her neck met her shoulder, worked at the perpetual stress knot she’d formed there, and she groaned with relief. Sleeping against the wall had begun to give her a massive kink in her neck, and this was-

“Can't wait to sink my teeth in,” a voice growled next to her ear. “Gonna eat you up, sweetheart.” 

Impossibly sharp teeth grazed her throat, and Miriam jerked awake with a silent scream.

Her eyes tore wildly around the hallway as she scrambled to her feet, drawing and cocking her gun without conscious thought. She listened hard, but there was nothing. No one was in the hallway to her right, so she ducked through the t-junction to her left, head swiveling sharply. The long passageway stretched in both directions, and though there were doors along both sides, she’d have heard someone opening one of them. 

All of the doors were closed. 

Still, her racing heart only began to calm when she slid her way cautiously into the storage room, pushed the shelves aside, and found Dean sitting exactly where she’d left him. Her lungs unlocked, and she let out a shaking, relieved breath.

He took in her disheveled appearance and flushed face, a satisfied smile stretching his lips wide.

“Sleep well?”

…

Two cups of coffee and a bowl of cereal later, the tremors in Miriam’s hands finally stopped. She made her way back to her room after a quick glance at Dean, who’d stared silently right back, his expression a bland mask of indifference. She splashed some water on her face, brushed her teeth, and changed clothes all while managing to not look in the mirror. Minor miracle, but a welcome one, nonetheless.

She sat heavily on the end of her bed. Though her hands were no longer shaking, her head was almost vibrating with the force of the thoughts ricocheting around her skull.

The dream was so real. But so were most of her nightmares, usually replays of the night she lost Aaron. Then there was her massive reaction to Dean when she’d first walked into the dungeon.

_ Overreaction _ , she thought acidly, frowning. 

What the hell was wrong with her? She knew better than to get that close to a monster, much less a demon. Much less a demon with the experience and skillset of Dean Winchester, backed by demonic strength and whatever else came standard. 

But…

She should be repulsed by him. And she was. Terrified and repulsed and all the appropriate feelings towards something so evil, monstrous. It wasn’t as if she were trying to justify his existence. She felt no sympathy towards him, no kindness.

But she’d be lying if she said she felt no attraction. 

_ Not sappy, romantic bullshit _ , she thought fiercely, her ragged fingernails digging into her palms. 

Not physical, not exactly, although how she’d ever managed to miss that his face was sculpted like some sort of bygone Greek hero, and that voice…

But it wasn't even Dean’s physical attraction that drew her in. That strange mark on his arm came to mind for a moment, but, really, she’d felt it the second she’d walked into the dungeon, even before she’d laid eyes on him. And she was damned sure hadn’t felt it years ago when they first met.

_ Damned sure _ .

So what had changed between then and now? Well, Dean Winchester was a demon, for one. But what about a demonic presence would pull at her so? Surely not…

She pushed that thought aside, searching her brain for something, anything to explain why she was so...enthralled. What was different about  _ her _ since the last time they’d met?

Who was she kidding? Even after a year, she was still in denial. Losing Aaron had changed everything for her, changed everything  _ about _ her. The overwhelming grief and guilt, and then the smothering numbness that weighed her down, blotted out the sun. Overcast days, nightmares every night. 

She was exhausted and shattered well before she’d even picked up the phone to answer Sam’s call.

She’d done her damndest in the last few months to shove down her emotions, pushed and ignored and insulated until anything more than dull existence was a system shock. The pull when she’d stepped into that dungeon, though…

Siren song. She was sailing straight towards the jagged rocks, and she didn’t honestly know if she had the strength to steer away. She wanted to help Sam...No, she  _ needed _ to help Sam, to pay off at least some of the debt she owed the brothers, but…

Nothing good could possibly come from this. 

_ Fuck me _ , she thought as her stomach twisted painfully. Confusion, pain, and grief washed over Miriam in a flood so intense all she could do was bury her face in her hands and weep like she hadn’t since she’d held Aaron’s mangled body in her arms, her blood mingling with his.

…

“It’s freedom,” Dean said. 

Miriam sat against the wall next to the table, methodically cleaning her gun. She hadn’t used it since that last hunt with Aaron, and she’d been foolish to neglect the weapon for so long. She turned red-rimmed eyes in his direction, her hands silently continuing their work. 

“You were wondering why I’d want to be a demon, why anyone would. It’s freedom from all that human bullshit. All the guilt, all the pain, all that worrying over fuck all.”

“Bet you still feel a little pain,” Miriam said, reaching towards the holy water. 

She smirked when his lips drew back in a silent snarl. His eyes flashed black, and something bright and not-quite-painful flared in her chest.

“You should keep your eyes like that,” she said before she could stop herself. 

His head snapped to the side, gaze sharp and focused, a wolf scenting prey. She swore silently. Half a day around this asshole and her verbal filter was shot to hell. She really had to get her act together. She was better than this.

She had to be.

Silence stretched between them to the point of snapping, Miriam staring hard into the burning darkness of his gaze. When her fingers began to shake, she hastily reassembled her weapon, gathering her tools into their zippered bag.

“I’ll be back,” she muttered defensively, not sure what exactly she was defending herself against. She stood, turning her back decisively on the demon, yet unable to make her feet move away.

“You know what I did all that time Sam was looking for me?” Dean asked suddenly. 

She hesitated before turning to face him. The depths of his ebony eyes drawing her in once more, and this time, for just a few moments, she let them. She was bone-weary, so tired of battling herself, and for just a moment she admitted that she didn’t have the will to resist anymore. 

_ Freedom _ .

She found herself standing inside the circle, almost toe-to-toe with the demon. If Dean were able to move, he could kick her or wrap a leg around her ankle and take her down. This was foolish, lethally so, and she knew better. But standing there, so close, she could easily reach out and-

_ And what?! _ Miriam asked herself fiercely, gathering herself to bolt.  _ What the hell are you doing?! _

“Sam searched for me for months, did all sorts of wicked things to find me, you wouldn’t even believe. And you know what I did while Sam beat his brains out, hunting for me? I drank. I fought. I fucked. I killed.” 

He ground out every word precisely; tongue, lips, and teeth flashed in obscene emphasis around each syllable. How the hell did he manage to make the simple act of speaking so terribly profane?

He paused for a moment, letting his words sink into her with the weight of scripture. When he spoke again, his tone was softer, balm against the agony of her inner turmoil. 

“I did whatever the hell I wanted, and I didn’t give a fuck who was hurting, who was dying, what was right or wrong.”

Miriam took a step forward, hardly breathing, fighting herself every inch of the way. She had to leave the room, to get away,  _ look _ away, shut him out somehow.

“I didn’t mourn my mommy and daddy. I didn’t miss one damned person I’ve lost. Didn’t think about ‘em for a second.”

Another step. Miriam’s hands pressed against Dean’s shoulders for support. She stood over him, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps as her head spun. Though he stared up at her from his confines, they both knew he had the high ground.

“I don’t need my baby brother to cure me, darlin’.”

He held her gaze deliberately as he tilted his head to stroke his bristled cheek against the back of her hand. Miriam’s muscles clenched as fiery sensation swept through her body, searing every nerve down to its roots. He lowered his eyes just long enough to sweep a shockingly soft kiss across her knuckles with his sculpted, ungodly soft lips before turning his face up to hers.

He grinned, flashing a feral, perfect set of teeth she realized could easily reach her now.

“I  _ am _ the cure.”

Miriam fled, and the echo of Dean’s words followed her every step of the way.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look to the tags for warnings. Please heed.
> 
> Grab your flashlights, kids, and follow Auntie V. We’re going deep and dark, and we probably won’t see the light again for a while.

It took Miriam almost an hour to convince herself she didn’t need to call Sam and tell him she was leaving. During that time, she selected his name on her phone then canceled the call before it went through approximately five hundred times, give or take. 

“Calm down. Calm the fuck down,” she muttered, pacing the abbreviated length of her room. Her heart thumped against her ribs. She forced her breathing into a pattern that matched her steps as Dean’s words circled her bruised conscience like vultures.

_ I  _ am _ the cure. _

“I can’t do this. But I gave my word I’d help. I owe them.”

_ I didn’t miss one damn person that I’ve lost. _

“I owe Aaron.”

_ It’s freedom from all the human bullshit. _

“Get your shit together, Bard. Breathe. He’s the one chained here, not you. Sam needs you. Dean needs you. You can handle one asshole stuck in a chair. Breathe.”

She’d hoped speaking the words aloud would help convince her, drown out the demon’s echoes, but Dean’s words simply flowed around her protests, digging down and taking root in the scorched earth left in the wake of her losses. 

_ I drank. I fought. I fucked. I killed. _

The void of his eyes called to her through her memory, spoke to the misery deep inside. A sharp pang spiked through her belly at the image of his lips, curved and full, as he’d smiled up at her. The honeyed gravel of his voice, the scrape of his facial hair. The back of her hand tingled, and she absently rubbed it against her thigh. 

_ I am the cure. _

Her phone dinged distantly, low battery, and she automatically moved to retrieve her charging cord from her bag. Still lost in her tangled reverie, she attached the cord to the phone and bent over to plug the block into the wall just as her phone buzzed in her hand, her ringtone blaring out full blast.

She uttered a tiny shriek and dropped the phone behind the bedside table. Then she banged her elbow retrieving the stupid thing, so the curse she greeted Sam with as she finally answered his call probably wasn’t the most reassuring thing she could have said.

“Miriam, are you okay? What happened, is it-”

“I’m fine, Sam,” she lied quickly, rubbing her elbow roughly as she dropped gracelessly onto the side of the bed. “I just dropped my phone, everything’s fine. Dean hasn’t moved an inch since you left. How’s it on your end?”

She could almost hear Sam sag with relief. “I just got into town. Found the right hospital, but the priest won’t be in until tomorrow night. He’s the only one who can handle this level of blessing, so I’ve gotta wait for him. I’m sorry, I hoped I’d be able to get back sooner. But you’re holding up okay?”

_ I’m having a mental breakdown that may or may not be triggered by your demonic sibling who seems to be trying to seduce me or convert me, or both, and I’m not entirely certain I don’t want him to,  _ she nearly answered.

“Yeah, haven’t even had to soak him with holy water yet. Don’t worry about us, just get this done right so we don’t need to go to the backup plan.” She paused, then asked, “There  _ is _ a backup plan, yes?”

Sam’s silence told her everything she needed to know. Exasperation warred with exhaustion as she bit her tongue against an unhelpful, acerbic reply.

Fucking Winchesters.

“Great. See you soon.”

She hung up, successfully plugged her phone in to charge, and flopped back on the bed with a huff of utter frustration. 

Sleep was what she needed most, but after her earlier nap she wasn’t sure it was the best idea. She briefly considered raiding some of the intriguingly filled decanters she’d noticed in the library on the way into the bunker, but she’d discovered early on in her grief that alcohol (and pills) tended to make it harder for her to wake from the nightmares, rather than dulling or blocking them out.

_ I  _ am _ the cure. _

She couldn’t go back to the dungeon yet, couldn’t face the demon until she had better control of herself. And she couldn’t stomach the thought of food. Even as she lay on top of the bedclothes, considering her options, she felt the fatigue dragging her down until her leaden eyelids made the decision for her.

…

“You taste even better than you smell,” Dean rasped from between her spread legs. 

His blackened eyes held hers, freezing her in place as his palms pressed her hips further down into the mattress. His nose dragged along her inner thigh, inhaling, before his teeth slowly sank into her flesh. She jerked under his grip, felt warmth flowing from more than just the bloody teeth marks, and braced her jaw against the scream she felt building in her gut.

“Don’t wanna scream for me, sweetheart? That’s okay, I can be patient when I want to. We’ve got time.” 

He bit again, higher up this time, and an odd, strangled noise worked its way from her throat. He watched as she shivered above him, held lewdly open for his perusal.

“Then again, maybe you’re not a screamer. Maybe you’re the beggin’ type. Let’s find out.”

He buried his face between her thighs, and Miriam’s hips snapped to meet him without a conscious thought on her part. She tangled clawed fingers into his hair, determined to rip him away, but instead found herself drawing him deeper. 

The tremors of his laugh sizzled through her belly, and something inside Miriam splintered.

“Please,” she whispered, tears leaking from her clenched eyelids. Her fingers trembled but held fast to his hair, unwilling to let go.

She felt him cease his ministrations, felt him release her hips with a sharply painful absence. Then the bed dipped around her, and she felt the absolute heat and solidity of him slide over her until his breath was warming the skin of her cheek, his lips ghosting a streak of fire just behind her ear.

“You beg so pretty for me, sweetheart. Say it again.”

She clamped her lips tightly shut, furious at herself, then shuddered as the bristles of his facial hair scratched down her neck and across her collar bone.

“Use your words, Miriam. Tell me what you want.” Teeth slid over her chin, scraping along her jawbone, her bare shoulder.

_ No! _ she screamed, but the sound never left her throat. 

Her traitorous hands reached for him, drew his hips down to hers, dug nails into flesh as she heard him hiss with pleasure.

“Say it, Miriam. Say what you want.”

_ I don’t want this _ ! her mind shrieked, but it was a lie. 

She did want this. She wanted everything he represented, everything he offered. To abandon her pain, drown herself in nothing but pleasure and instinct, to never have to think or remember again. No more obligation, no more guilt, just sink into that waiting abyss...

“Miriam...” He thrust, piercing through her roughly constructed walls of denial and avoidance. 

Her resistance crumbled with every push of his hips, every press of his flesh against hers, every mark of his teeth and scrape of his nails.

“Miriam,  _ say it _ . What do you want?”

Higher and lower, sinking so deep it burned, flying so high she couldn’t breathe, she lost herself to the moment and just felt.

“Freedom. I want freedom.”

She woke, her lips still moving, as her words faded into the darkness of the empty room.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look to tags for warnings. Please heed warnings.

Dean was reading her thoughts, projecting himself into her dreams. That was the only explanation. She’d heard of monsters who could do it. She’d even heard that demons were sometimes telepathic. 

But he was doubly bound with the cuffs and the devil’s trap; he shouldn’t be able to reach her outside of that circle. And if it wasn’t Dean planting those dreams, those fantasies, then...

“It has to be him,” she whispered. Then, louder, “It  _ has _ to.”

_ Please _ .

Aloud, her voice sounded ragged, harsh, and utterly unconvinced. But there was no other explanation. 

Miriam was a sister, a hunter, and she would never abandon the memories of her brother and family, of everything their work stood for in exchange for such a simple, petty thing as...relief.

Life was pain. Doubly so if you were a hunter. That was just the way things were. 

She was still tired, probably hungry again now, that was all this was. She just needed to shore herself up, patch her ragged walls to hold them up a little longer. 

Miriam glanced at her phone to check the time. 

Dawn, more or less. Best case scenario, with how long it took Sam to get to his destination yesterday, she was stuck on demon duty for at least another eighteen hours, if not a whole day. 

Sam had said the priest would be getting in that night, though he didn’t say when. He also hadn’t said how long this whole blessing process would take. 

Or what the priest was blessing. 

Or why.

_ Sam didn't say a lot of things _ , something snarled from the recesses of her mind. 

She paused to let the bitter thought sink in, considering the venom behind it. Sam had left out an awful lot of details about this plan of his, including lying to get her there in the first place. 

Well, not a lie, exactly, but leaving out information you knew would change the person’s mind…

If that wasn’t lying, then it damned sure was the closest you could get.

_ Sam searched for me for months, did all sorts of wicked things to find me, you wouldn’t even believe, _ Dean had said. 

Anger, irrational in its intensity, flared in Miriam’s chest. 

She had, at most, a very partial picture of everything going on, and she detested being manipulated. Someone was going to have to answer some questions in the very near future, though she wasn’t sure which source of information she wanted to tackle first.

“ _ Fucking _ Winchesters,” she hissed. 

She stood abruptly, eyes flicking around the small room. She was too strung out to face Dean right now. She needed fuel, and maybe some sort of reset button. 

_ Shower first, coffee second, deal with the rest of the world at least third _ , she decided. 

_ Maybe even not at all. _

…

Showering first was an excellent decision, probably among her top five best in the last year or so. 

She felt much more prepared to deal with this whole unbelievable mess she’d unwittingly gotten herself into now that her hair was clean and pulled into her “don’t fuck with me” bun, scraped back so tightly it threatened to cut off blood flow to her brain.

Recalling last night’s feverish dream, she decided a little less blood flow might not be a bad thing. She sucked in as deep a breath as she could take, let it out slowly, and finished getting dressed. Then she headed for the kitchen.

“No way I’m facing that bastard on anything less than breakfast and two cups of coffee,” she muttered.

…

“Mornin’, Starshine. Sounds like you had some very sweet dreams last night,” the demon greeted her. 

He closed his eyes, inhaling as she stepped across the devil’s trap, and exhaled with obvious pleasure. A smile spread across his face, and when he opened his eyes, they were once again midnight.

“You really did miss me. Anything you wanna share with the class?”

Instead of taking his bait, though a flaming blush was creeping steadily up her neck, Miriam replied, “Tell me what you meant about Sam yesterday. About what he did to find you.”

Dean’s expression managed to combine contempt, amusement, and a vague indifference, but no sign that she had caught him off-guard.

“I don’t want to bore you with the tedious details of my baby brother’s sad little forays into desperation. Maybe you could tell me how your night went after our little talk got you so worked up. Sounded pretty heated at one point.”

His eyes widened meaningfully for a second, and she had to physically restrain herself from crossing the room. 

The last thing she wanted was to give him the satisfaction of a charged response, for one thing. She also wasn’t entirely certain what she’d do when she reached him, for another.

From the way the tip of Dean’s tongue rested on his lower lip, caught under those hypnotic incisors, Miriam realized he knew exactly what she was thinking. And what she was likely to do if she did approach him.

_ Fuck _ .

“I’m down, sweetheart, but maybe a little foreplay first.”

She snatched a flask of holy water from the table, unscrewing the cap with deliberate slowness as she stared him down. His amused expression didn’t change, but something in his posture stiffened. Emboldened, she rolled her shoulders with an audible crackle, then moved behind him, holding the vessel ready.

“Try again.”

“You threatenin’ me?” he grinned. “ And here I thought we were gettin’ along so well.”

“Wrong answer, asshole.”

She titled the flask, letting a few drops dribble down against the back of his neck. 

Smoke sizzled up as his skin abruptly reddened wherever the drops splashed, and the demon snarled, straining forward against the ropes as his body jerked. 

She gave him a moment, watching with perverted appreciation as the tendons in his neck strained and flexed. When his breathing had evened out a little, she cleared her throat.

“Tell me about Sam.”

“Stupid tall, know-it-all, died a few times. Almost ended the world a few times.” He paused, head cocked to the side as if listening to something. “Fucked a demon for a while, literally been to Hell, definitely needs to loosen the fuck up and go there again.”

“He...what?” Miriam stopped, hand frozen around the flask, staring at the back of Dean’s head. 

There was no way Sam Winchester... no. No, definitely not. The demon was screwing with her again, lying to get inside her head. Sam would never...

No.

This time she gave a three count as she poured a thin stream of holy water down the back of his neck. 

His roar shook the room, shocking her hand away and sending her reeling backward until she collided with the wall. The flask clanked to the floor, spilling most of its contents. 

She gaped as Dean threw his head back, thrashing in the chair, his skin boiling red. She didn’t realize her hands were clamped over her ears until her fingers constricted, and she jerked them away from her head with a hiss of pain.

The demon’s body unclenched, and he dropped forward as far as the ropes allowed. His back heaved as he slumped over, and she felt a strange tingle running through her limbs. 

She had done that to him, had actually hurt a demon. He was bent over, gasping for breath, would be prostrate on the floor if he weren’t tied to the chair.

It was heady having that kind of power over something so strong. She knew she shouldn’t give herself false confidence; she only had this power because he was shackled. 

Still, she’d hurt him, actually cracked that smug shell of confidence, and it felt good to have something like a little control in her life again.

That it came at the pain of another creature, she found she didn’t regret one bit.

She picked up the nearly empty flask with a steady hand, rising from her crouch in a smooth, confident motion. She moved forward, thoughts whirling, and stepped into the circle, intending to swap out for a fuller flask and continue her interrogation.

“Torture does it for you, too, huh?”

His voice was thin as he pushed himself upright, his breathing was ragged, but the flush in his skin faded even as she watched. 

He tilted his head back, the tip of his tongue wetting his lips, and he shivered all over. When he met her gaze a second later, his green eyes were serene as a summer lake.

“You enjoyed that. I can smell it on you. Don’t get overconfident, champ. I won’t be trapped forever.”

He lunged forward against his restraints, his teeth bared in a vicious grin. 

“I’m gonna get loose, count on it. I’m gonna peel the flesh from your bones, burn the  _ heart _ out of you. The last thing you see in this world will be me ripping your throat out so you can remember one last pathetic time just how completely you failed my brother  _ and _ yours.”

She gulped hard, her mind suddenly, terrifyingly blank. Everything was moving too fast, she was woefully unprepared, she’d been out of practice too long, and-

“You could train your entire life and never be ready for me,” Dean snarled, eyebrows lowered and jaw set tight. ““Now run along and avoid some more mirrors, go cry in the dark. Torture isn’t a game, sweetheart. Don’t come back until you’re ready to actually hurt me.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look to tags for warnings; please heed warnings.

She and Aaron hadn’t kept a home in the traditional sense, not since their parents had passed away. 

Hunting wasn’t a terrible life for the Bard family, all considering. They’d had good training, their parents had loved them, and above all, Aaron and Miriam had each other. They were well into their teens when their parents had left for a hunt and never returned.

A careless driver, surprisingly not a monster, had changed the Bard children’s lives forever. That was when Miriam became the official chauffeur for the pair, and Aaron took a class at the local community center on emergency first aid.

The moment Miriam was legally able, she put the family house on the market, sold everything sellable, and bought a decent car that would get her and Aaron wherever they needed to go. The rest of the money had gone into a savings account that had proved invaluable when they were tired of sleeping in a tent or the bench seats of the car. 

They rarely splurged, though. No telling when an accident would happen and put one of them out of commission for too long.

And there had been close calls. Some  _ really _ close calls. For a few seconds in the middle of the dustup with the witch, Miriam had been convinced they needed to quit hunting entirely and find a way to put Aaron through EMT training like he used to dream about when they were little. 

Okay, he’d actually wanted to be the ambulance itself, not an EMT, but his intent had been more or less the same.

But the Winchesters had worked the case with them, swooped in and saved Aaron; they were impossibly cool and heroic, older and experienced and full of advice and reassurance. Sam had seemed a little hesitant to encourage them, but Aaron had been so eager and enthusiastic that even the younger Winchester had been won over in the end.

Years passed. The Bards kept up their training, worked cases, usually managed to save people, and above all, they still had each other. Life was decent and simple, if somewhat terrifying on occasion. They were good at their roles, settled, and they accepted where life had taken them.

Then they had a fight, and a stupid one at that. Miriam thought Aaron’s research on their current case was sloppy and incomplete, that he was jumping to conclusions rather than working all the angles, and she’d told him so in no uncertain terms. 

She had a tendency to be blunt, overly so with Aaron especially because she knew he was capable of much better work. Maybe she could have pulled her punches, been a little less harsh, but it felt like they’d had this argument an awful lot lately, and she was tired and frustrated. 

“I’m not your babysitter,” she snapped, glaring at him over the top of her computer screen. “So buckle down and pull your own goddamn weight already.”

It wasn’t the first time they’d had this particular argument, but it was definitely the worst thus far. Miriam had been unfair, they both knew it, but she refused to apologize. Rather than snapping back, Aaron had gone silent, fuming (sulking, she’d told him), and then he’d taken off to scope out a couple of the secondary sites. 

The last thing Miriam had been expecting was a text two hours later that consisted of an address and their codeword that meant drop everything and haul ass ASAP.

She went in cautiously, armed to the teeth with silver to spare for Aaron, and still, it hadn’t been enough. She’d fired her last silver bullet point-blank under the chin of the final werewolf just as it hooked two claws into the side of her neck. 

It missed her jugular by centimeters, and the side of her throat was wrecked, but she would live.

It was the sight of Aaron’s blank, staring eyes above the shredded flesh of his throat and chest cavity, torn open and empty, that killed her. 

She’d gathered him up, spilling out apologies in ragged sobs. She cradled him against her chest, rocked him as she’d done through the storms of their childhood, after the nightmares that came in the first months of their hunter training, in the days after their parents’ accident.

And she screamed and screamed into the night.

A week after his funeral, she ripped the black cloth from the mirror and stared hard at her reflection. She’d long since realized that she had essentially killed Aaron; she had not made peace with it (how could she ever?), but she’d accepted it, nevertheless.

So when she looked into the mirror, expecting shadows and dark circles, only to be greeted by Aaron’s sorrowful face gazing back at her, she was convinced she’d gone insane.

It had taken her weeks to look at a mirror again.

It wasn’t always Aaron’s face she saw. Sometimes it was her parents, sometimes it was the people they’d failed to save, whether from mistakes made or just shitty luck. Every hunter had regret stories; she and Aaron had been no different.

Sometimes it was just her own reflection, full of grief and longing, emptier than anything she’d ever seen. Every mirror reflected her losses over and over, and after Aaron, she found the weight of them insufferable.

Eventually, she’d just started avoiding mirrors, covering them when she wasn’t strong enough to look away, and life had become marginally more bearable. 

She couldn’t hunt anymore, though. It didn’t matter how many hunting buddies, their own or those inherited from their parents, enticed her to help or at least do some research. She pushed everyone away until they eventually stopped reaching out and left her alone, just as she deserved. It was safer this way; if no one was relying on her for anything, she couldn’t let them down.

She’d learned her limits, and she’d learned to watch her goddamned mouth. Price paid, lesson learned.

But when Sam Winchester, prodigal son and younger brother, hunter and researcher extraordinaire, had called in a life debt, she’d foolishly jumped in without a thought to any of those lessons. A desperate hope had sprung up inside her, one she barely put conscious thought to.

Perhaps if she helped the men who’d once saved Aaron, she might bring back some small part of her brother, maybe even absolve herself of his death, if only just a little.

But, once again, she’d been criminally shortsighted. 

She was woefully out of her depth here, had no business babysitting any demon, much less one so gifted as Dean Winchester. 

She needed to call Sam, tell him to get his ass back, then leave the bunker and barricade the front door behind her. Sam needed to accept that his brother was gone and there was no saving him.

They’d all have been better off if she and Sam had just admitted that from the beginning.

She stood in the kitchen, phone in her hand, staring at it like she had no idea how to use it. 

_ Call Sam _ , she urged herself.  _ Admit you let him down, you can’t even handle this simple job. _

She’d failed him as she’d failed Aaron, and it was going to cost him the same as her earlier failure had cost her.

_ Just call him, _ she willed her fingers. Her heartbeat kicked up a few notches, her palms beginning to sweat. Her brain felt claustrophobic, her own body crowded and unfamiliar as she struggled with the simple task of dialing her phone. 

_ Call him now _ .

But she couldn’t. She didn’t  _ want _ Sam to return. She wanted... she needed…

_ Freedom _ .

Her phone slipped from her fingers, clattered against the side of the kitchen island, and fell to the floor. The case snapped open, tiny electronic parts scattering in every direction.

Her elbows hit the island, and she slumped forward, face in her hands as sobs wracked her exhausted body. The cold metal shocked her fevered skin, and she shivered on the chill surface as the anguish rolled through her. She had nothing left. She was just... 

So… 

Tired.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read tags for warnings. PLEASE heed warnings.

Unnaturally strong fingers slid up her sides, hooking under her arms and pulling her upright. She spun around only to find a knifepoint pressed under her chin, and her head tilted back so sharply she could only just see the void staring back at her from the demon’s eyes.

She reached instinctively for the back of her waistband, but Dean pressed the tip of his knife upwards, and she scrabbled at his arms to keep from overbalancing. 

She felt a sting under her chin, followed by a trickle of warmth that cooled as it slid down her throat.

“Think this’s what you’re looking for,” he said, flexing his grip on the blade as he drank in her tense, terrified expression. He nodded at the island behind her. “Hop up.”

Miriam hesitated, frozen, but a little extra pressure from the knife had her moving backward, stepping up to awkwardly sit on the edge of the metal prep table. 

Pots and pans swung crazily around her head until Dean shifted, his face tightening for a split second. A wave of concussive force sent the cookware flying into the wall with a deafening metallic clang.

“Comfy?” he murmured, crowding her space, invading her senses. 

He smelled of sulfur and musk, smokey and dizzying as if his close proximity was sucking the oxygen straight from her lungs. His nose dragged up the scar tissue on the side of her neck, inhaling deeply, and she fought against the urge to moan at the contact.

“Good,” he rasped, not waiting for a response. “We’re gonna be here a while.”

He jerked the dagger from her neck and flung it away without looking. The knife buried itself to the hilt in the wall, but before Miriam could react, the demon pulled her face to his until they were nose to nose.

“You’re not here; you can’t get out of the dungeon,” she choked, fingers clenched around his wrists, failing to budge his grip even an inch. “This is a dream. I’m dreaming-”

“I’m flattered,” he said, ignoring her panicked struggles as he tilted her head to the side. Satisfied with the angle, Dean pressed the tip of his tongue to the base of her throat, tracing the line of blood upwards until he reached the tiny cut. He fastened plush lips to the wound, sucking fiercely, and Miriam lost all pretense of defiance. 

Something clenched hot and desperate in the pit of her belly, and her legs wrapped around the demon’s waist, locking him in place. She tangled her fingers in his hair, her hiss of pleasure turning to a strangled curse as his teeth dug in, pain searing across her throat.

“You can make this stop anytime you want to,” he breathed. His voice was hypnotic, his presence an intoxicating fog that clouded her mind against logical thought. She stared at him hazily, taking in his endless, ebony eyes, the smear of her own blood around his mouth, the shine of his teeth in the harsh lighting.

All at once, the uncertainty, the pain, the grief, just... stopped.

“What I  _ want _ is for you to shut your goddamned mouth,” she snarled, fisting the hair at the crown of his head. 

She yanked his head back, closing her lips on his chin, tasting blood, feeling the stubble scraping over her tongue and the rumble of his growl ticklish against her hypersensitive nerves. Her legs contracted, pulling him closer, and his fingers dug into her ass, dragging her forward until nothing could fit between them.

“What do you want me to shut it on?” he asked, his voice grinding at her resolve even as his hips ground against hers.

Her fingers jerked reflexively in his hair, and his eyes snapped shut as he exhaled with an expression just short of reverence. When he lowered his gaze again, her lungs locked at the depth of his hunger. 

“I’m gonna bleed you dry.” 

He lunged forward, and his teeth latched onto her neck once more, sinking into the flesh with decisive finality.

Miriam’s eyes snapped open as her knees buckled. 

She found herself sprawled on the kitchen floor, hand clasped to her scarred but intact throat. She snatched at her lower back, fingers closing around the handle of the demon blade, and her jaw clenched as she fought to get her breathing under control.

Metal cookware swung cheerfully above the island in the empty kitchen, and she swore as she stood on shaky legs. Miriam clutched hard at the metal table as rage flooded her senses, tingeing her vision red.

“Son of a  _ bitch _ ,” she swore. 

Strength surged through her trembling limbs as her adrenaline spiked, steadying her. She straightened and stalked from the room. She needed to vent this crazed energy, to tear something apart or smash it to pieces. 

Her first thought was the pretty face in the dungeon just a few rooms over. And though she currently felt equal to the task, even in her heightened emotional state, she realized very quickly just how bad an idea that was.

“No matter how much he deserves it,” she seethed as she passed the door to the dungeon.

Her feet found their way to her temporary bedroom, and she paced furiously, muttering under her breath. 

Maybe there was a gym around somewhere; this place had obviously housed a lot of people at one point, folks who were comfortable living underground. There was bound to be somewhere for them to get some sort of exercise. She swapped out her t-shirt for a tank top, switched jeans for leggings, and grabbed her gun and the demon blade before setting out. 

Since she had no idea what she was looking for, Miriam resorted to checking every room she came across. After five empty bedrooms identical to her own, she wondered if this were simply some sort of bizarre motel or dorm. Then she came across something different.

Structurally, this room matched the others, with its outdated furniture and machines, but someone had settled here more recently and taken the time to make it an actual home. 

Weapons and souvenirs lined shelves around the room and above the bed, a basket of laundry perched on a chair, and there were even some highly questionable magazines tossed aside for future perusal. On a small phone table next to the wall, notebooks were heaped haphazardly where someone had been called away in the middle of research. 

“And a snack,” she said softly, noting the half-eaten piece of pie that seemed to be partially mummified. 

The table was littered with scribbled notes circling a very old-fashioned telephone, and a spiral notebook sat beneath the desiccated pastry. Miriam began to turn away but stopped, some hunter’s instinct tugging at the corner of her mind. 

She looked back to the container of pie, shook her head, and looked at the notebook beneath it again. Tucked inside was a small stack of pictures. She set her weapons down, pulled out the photographs, and began flipping through them.

Family pictures, she realized. A young boy and a smiling blonde woman, the same woman in the second picture with a dark-haired man, still smiling. John and Mary Winchester, she realized. Most people in the hunting world knew the Winchesters’ story; it had been one of the reasons Miriam steered herself and Aaron clear of the few demonic cases that came their way.

Miriam paused, then glanced back at the first picture again. Her finger stroked down the little boy’s face.

“Dean.”

She wondered how long after that photo had been taken that his mother had died. Miriam was potentially looking at the last photographic evidence of Dean Winchester with a carefree smile.

The next picture showed Dean and Sam together with a familiar face. If most hunters knew the Winchesters’ story, then damn near everyone in the hunting world knew Bobby Singer. Hell, there had been a point in time when she and Aaron had Bobby as number one on their speed dial. 

She smiled faintly, shuffling the pictures around.

The last two were both of Sam and Dean together, right around the time when she and Aaron had met the brothers, and she realized her assumption about the first picture wasn’t accurate.

The freeness in Dean’s posture, the open happiness on his face when he was next to his brother, despite everything he’d already been through up to that point in his life, stole her breath. 

Miriam felt stinging behind her eyes as she studied his genuine joy, his relaxation, his unlined face.

_ This is what Sam is fighting for _ , she thought, and sniffled, catching herself off guard. 

She cleared her throat, tilting her head back as the tears began to fall. The anger bled out of her in trickles and drips of saltwater. 

What lie wouldn’t she tell, what atrocity wouldn’t she commit to save Aaron? Yes, Sam owed her a hell of a lot of answers, but could she honestly blame him?

_ I knew you’d understand,  _ he’d said.

Still sniffling, she carefully replaced the photographs in their original order and stuffed them between the pages of the spiral notebook. She collected her weapons, then glanced down at the decomposing dessert, wrinkling her nose with distaste. 

In the end, she shrugged and left it where it was.

She might be a glorified babysitter but damned if she was going to clean up after two grown men.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in tags; please heed warnings.

After the emotional train wreck of the morning, Miriam’s body screamed for a nap, sleep, any respite from consciousness, but she stubbornly fixed her second pot of coffee for the day. Sure, it didn't actually work for the kids in the Freddy Krueger movies, but they’d been trying to stay up for days and days. She just needed to make it until Sam got back tonight.

Hopefully.

A very bracing cold shower helped sweep a few more cobwebs from the corners of her brain. After she’d gone through her gear and figured out the laundry situation, though, she couldn’t think of any further excuses to avoid the demonic elephant in the bunker.

_ Just saving my sanity and soul _ , she thought bitterly.  _ That’s all _ .

Miriam brought a chair with her this time, thinking it would at least be more comfortable than sitting on the floor. She’d briefly considered bringing one of the thick volumes from the library, but she knew better than to think the demon would actually give her peace enough to read. 

He greeted her with wary silence, his human eyes suspicious and watchful. She dropped into the chair and faced Dean, determined not to show any of the anxiety that clawed her insides. 

She stayed back, well clear of the devil’s trap, though she didn’t know how much good that would do. If he could project himself into her dreams outside the room, could he read her thoughts outside of the circle, as well?

She crossed her arms, leaning back and studying his face silently. She’d be lying if she said he hadn’t aged well. She’d been so distraught about Aaron’s close call the first time she’d met the Winchesters that she hadn’t truly noticed just how pretty Dean had been. Seeing those old pictures of him had shown her current self exactly what her younger self had been too distracted to notice.

Now, though. God, it was like someone had hand-picked each of his features and thought,  _ How could this get any better? _

She shook her head at her traitorous thoughts, snorting derisively. 

“It’s rude to stare, y’know. Whatcha been up to, Miri?”

Her eye twitched at his use of her nickname; only Aaron had ever been allowed to call her that. Of course, Dean noted her reaction, probably filed it away for further use. He took in her defensive posture and uneasy silence, and he grinned.

“Heard from Sam? What’s the hold-up? Couldn’t find a padre to do the blessing? Couldn’t get enough blood?”

A half-dozen questions popped into Miriam’s head, but she didn’t take his bait. After all, even if she did ask him, she had no way to gauge if he would tell her the truth.

“I’ve never lied to you,” Dean said. She scoffed, and he had the audacity to appear offended.

“You don’t get to play mindfuck and then claim innocence,” Miriam said. Her headache returned with a vengeance, and suddenly it was all she could do to stay awake. She knew she couldn’t stand up to a mental sparring match with him, but apparently she didn’t have the simple common sense to not engage in the first place.

“Never claimed to be innocent, Miri. Just said I never lied. I  _ would _ love to eat you up, and if I get the chance, I’ll gladly show you how that little torture scenario earlier should have gone.”

“Yeah, well, Sam will be back tonight, so don’t count on that chance, princess,” she shot back. 

Dean ignored her insult. “Lotta hours between then and now. How you wanna fill ‘em?”

“Not listening to you,” she muttered, and just like that she was finished. She stood, done with sentry duty, and turned her back on Dean. He was still bound, he didn’t actually need anything from her, and there was no point sitting around letting him needle her until he got even further under skin.

“You’re worse than a bad tattoo,” she said, then immediately wished she hadn't spoken. Ten minutes in a room with him, and her self-control evaporated. 

“Still running that mouth, huh? When are you gonna learn your lesson, Miri? You don’t have any more brothers to lose.”

She stiffened, hands digging into the top of the chair. She heard the pinching noise of her fingernails cutting into the leather, but upholstery was the last thing on her mind. 

“Don’t,” she spit out, not sure if she was telling herself or the demon.

“Sam and I never should have stopped that witch. You might have learned your lesson a long time ago, saved everyone years of trouble.”

A fury began to build in the back of her mind, hotter than any she’d felt before. Miriam had been to the depths of so many emotions in her life: the limitless if irritated love for her brother, the fierce pride of her first successful hunt, the guilt and despair of losing Aaron, the confusion and aimlessness of the last year without him.

But never in her life had Miriam felt anything as terrible and all-consuming as this rage.

“Y’know what, I’ve got a pesky little brother problem I need solved. You seem to be pretty skilled in that area; help a demon out?”

Anything else Dean was about to say was cut off by Miriam’s fist colliding with his jaw. The demon’s head snapped to the side, and he remained in that position as Miriam glared down at him, hands at the ready. Her chest heaved with the effort of holding back.

And then she saw the bastard’s shoulders shaking; he was laughing at her. He turned his head, licking the blood from his split lip, his grin wide and infuriatingly smug. She didn’t even realize she’d hit him again until her fist began to sting. There was roaring in her ears, and blood streamed from the demon’s nose.

And still he laughed.

She screamed, her words lost in a storm of wrath, her only thought that she had to end him now. Her vision blurred as she hit him again and again, the pounding in her brain reaching a maelstrom. And then, suddenly, everything shrank down to a tiny pinpoint in the universe, the two of them caught in the eye of the storm, the hunter and the darkness, everything else shut out.

“Do it, sweetheart.”

Miriam was bent over Dean, one foot planted on the floor, her other knee pressed hard into his chest, the hair at the back of his head clenched in her fist. She'd dragged his head back, exposing the thick column of his neck, and she pressed the demon blade against his Adam’s apple just shy of splitting the skin.

“Atta girl,” he said. His smile was knowing now, his voice the embodiment of calm as he pressed his neck against the blade. A thread of crimson appeared where metal touched his skin, and her fury wavered. “Go ahead and betray Sam’s trust. Isn't that what you do with brothers? Kill ‘em, betray ‘em, but either way you let ‘em down, right?”

Blood trickled down Dean’s throat, and Miriam’s frenetic heartbeat began to slow as her eyes tracked its path. 

“Miri.”

Obsidian eyes caught her gaze; Dean’s expression was serene. As she watched, the bruises and cuts on began to close up, leaving behind threads and smears of blood without sources. He leaned towards her until their faces were inches apart, and she relented with the knife until it rested in her numb fingers against his collarbone.

“Use your words, Miriam. Tell me what you want.”

The dream reverberated in her abruptly still mind, and she nearly dropped the blade. He stared her down, lips drawn, canines bared.

“Make a  _ fucking _ decision,” he said, and though his voice was soft, velveted, it carried easily around the room. “Say it, Miriam. Say what you want.”

_ I don’t want this _ , her mind echoed, but it was a lie now, just as it had been in the dream. She wanted to forget, to lose herself in something besides the pain.

_I want_ **_him_** , she thought.

She dropped the knife. 

The demon blade fell, struck the toe of Dean’s boot, and spun away across the floor. Her splayed fingers clutched the material of his shirt as her head swam. She lowered her knee from his chest, sliding it down until it wedged into the space between his hip and the arm of the chair.

Her breath came in fits and stops, harsh and ragged against the frantic pounding of her heart. Dean lifted an eyebrow in challenge, his only reaction as she swung her other leg up to straddle him. 

She tightened her grip on the collar of his shirt for balance and leverage to yank him close enough to bring their lips together. She closed her mouth over the freshly healed cut and bit down hard as she sank fully onto his lap. She felt the vibration of Dean’s growl in her chest.

When she finally pulled away, the salty, iron tang of his blood coated her tongue. His lips curled up on one side, and he slumped a little in the confines of his chair, sliding down and spreading his thighs further apart beneath her.

“Sure as hell hope you fuck like you kiss.”

The air had taken on a surreal, shimmering quality, and Miriam had no idea if she was awake or asleep anymore. She moved with slow deliberation, feeling as if she was underwater.

_ Drowning _ , she thought briefly as she threaded her fingers into Dean’s hair and kissed him again. Her tongue swept across his, and he flexed his thighs beneath her. A sharp hunger lanced straight to the pit of her stomach.

“Lose your clothes.”

At any other time, Miriam would have balked at the orders, at the sheer arrogance of his words and tone, but she didn’t want to care, didn’t want to think or decide.

She simply stood and did as she was told.

“Let me loose.”

Even in her dazed state, she didn’t dare set Dean free from his bonds, not that she had any way of opening the handcuffs. Instead, she dropped to her knees and worked on his belt and jeans, loosening and opening until he was as bare to her as he could get.

He caught and held her gaze for a long, silent moment, the air muffled and thick around them. Apparently satisfied with what he read on her face, he nodded and wet his lips slowly with the tip of his tongue.

“Come here,” he said with all the command of a king on his throne. And she did.

His fingers rippled against the arms of his chair, his eyes heavy-lidded as she sank onto the length of him. Every muscle in her belly was tense and heavy, and her walls clenched around him. He exhaled sharply, head going back for just a moment before he leaned forward, locking her in place with the force of his midnight gaze.

“Again,” he said. And she did.

She rode him slowly at first, still warring with herself deep inside. This broke with everything she’d ever been taught as a hunter, everything she’d ever believed. But hadn’t she lost everything that mattered to her  _ because _ she followed those lessons, those beliefs? 

She had paid for this freedom in blood, both hers and Aaron’s. She didn’t  _ deserve _ this; she had goddamn  _ earned _ it.

She looked into the eyes of the demon before her, bottomless wells of oblivion. There was no hesitation, no regret or worry or doubt. His features were awash with simple, carnal pleasure, a hunger that pulled her deeper, beckoned her to take the plunge and lose herself once and for all.

“Take what you want,” Dean said. His voice was low, rough, and it rasped down her spine. She sucked in a breath, rolling her hips, and he bared his teeth in a feral snarl. Her head dropped, their foreheads pressed together as she moved against him. Her nails dug into the back of his neck as the storm within her built to a crescendo.

_ Jump _ , she thought,  _ just let go and jump. End this, end the pain _ .

“Get out of your head,” he growled, the tendons of his neck hard and strained beneath her fingers. A shock of unmitigated lust spiraled out from Miriam’s belly, flaring through every nerve in her body. Her back arched as she let out a hoarse gasp, her hands clawing at his shoulders.

“Stop thinking, stop caring, and just fucking  _ take what you want _ .”

Her teeth sank into the smooth, taut column of his throat. Darkness exploded through her vision as the storm peaked. A harsh, guttural groan worked its way out of the demon’s throat as he shuddered within her, his curses reverberating in the very marrow of her bones. She rose and fell a final time before shattering around him.

…

“So, what now? Whatcha gonna do with all that newfound freedom and...what do the kids call it these days? Self-awareness?”

She ignored Dean, focusing on dressing herself as quickly as possible. She’d cleaned Dean up after they finished, feeling clumsy and detached from her body, and he’d been uncharacteristically silent as he watched her.

Her emotions seemed to have short-circuited somewhere in the middle of the chaos. She should feel ashamed, terrified, appalled by what she’d done. She should feel any number of negative, repulsed emotions, and instead, she felt more lost than ever.

What  _ did _ she want now? Aaron was still gone. She was still alone. She had no desire to hunt. Or really do much of anything. Except…

“I’m all for another round, sweetheart. Maybe if you scratch that itch another time or two, you’ll actually figure out how to make that freedom permanent.”

“What do you…” Miriam trailed off, icy tendrils shame and dread creeping up her spine.

“Don’t tell me you thought a big, strong man was gonna solve all your problems.” He laughed, and acid washed through her stomach. “Sweetheart, I’m a demon: guilt-free zone over here. You want free of all that human emotional bullshit for good?”

His smile was hard, predatory, and she swallowed against the knot of alarm that tightened her throat.

“We’re hunters. You know how this works: you want free of all the complications that come with that soul, you got two ways out. Let me go, we make a deal, I take care of all those pesky emotions of yours.”

He waited as the weight of his words sank into her before casually adding, “Or you could just go take care of the problem yourself like a big girl. Save us all a lot of trouble. What do you say?”

He laughed aloud again at her shocked expression. “What’d you think, that we’d be all cuddles and kisses now that we’ve fucked? You’ve been dancing around me since you got here. Maybe you’re still too much of a coward to say it out loud, but you know what’s pulling you to me. No one plays with demons for fun, Miri.”

The image of a mirror, a seedy motel room, a gun flashed through Miriam’s mind. She throttled down the memory, but it was too fast. He’d seen.

“You're a hunter who can’t hunt anymore. You got your brother killed. You were supposed to guard me, and instead you fuck me. What’s the point of you? You got nothin’ left. You’re useless.”

“I-”

“Look at yourself,” he roared, and she fell back a step at his sudden vehemence. “This here is rock bottom, Miri. You’ve failed at everything else. You gonna fuck this up, too? There’s only one place further down. You want oblivion, you wanna be done with this life?”

She tried to sucked in a breath through paralyzed lungs as she backed away from the demon. Her heart crashed against her ribs, and for the first time she knew what Dean was going to say before the words left his smiling lips.

“You got one way out now. So do everyone a favor and take it.”

…

_ To be continued... _


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in tags; please heed warnings.

Miriam didn’t know how long she’d been sitting on the bedside, staring at the gun clenched in her nerveless fingers. How did she get here? She'd been standing in front of Dean, reeling from the terrible truths he’d forced her to face, and then she found herself here.

In the unfamiliar, anachronistic setting of her room in the bunker, no sound except the barest whisper of the air system, Miriam was blurry and out of focus. She couldn’t feel the bed beneath her legs, the freezing floor under her feet. 

Was she even awake?

_ Doesn’t matter _ , she thought. Everything he’d said was true. He had seen right through every one of her denials and shattered all of her self-crafted delusions. She had failed everyone and everything of consequence to her. At this point, it no longer mattered how or why. She had nothing left but the pain.

She took in a slow, shaking breath through her nose, let it out through her mouth.

Setting him free was out of the question. She wasn’t going to beg him, compromise the last shred of self she had left making a devil’s bargain, and he knew it. Dean was right. She had one choice left to make, one more chance to get it right.

One way out.

She stood, legs moving of their own accord, and crossed the small room. She rested the gun on the rim of the sink, staring down at her fingers as they gripped the cold metal. One more breath, in then out, and she looked up into the mirror. 

Aaron’s face looked sorrowfully back at her. She drank him in, the rip of his loss tearing deeper. Her empty hand traced the lines of his forehead, his cheekbones, the nose their family had inherited from generations back on her mother’s side. When she met his gaze, she saw tears in his eyes as he raised his palm, and she pressed her hand to the image of his.

Her mind flashed back suddenly, and she was standing not in the bunker but in the rundown motel room she and Aaron had rented for that last hunt. She’d come back two weeks after his funeral with the desperate idea that she could find something he might have imprinted on, some object holding his spirit so she could conjure him, tell him to his face she knew how badly she’d messed up.

That she was sorry.

She’d stared into the mirror for hours, and he had stared right back, but she knew in her heart it wasn’t really her brother. The despair had swelled, risen to a crescendo, and she’d raised the gun, placed it to her temple, gone so far as to cock her weapon. She stood, shaking, staring in the mirror until her nerves and her hand failed her.

When the sun rose the next day, she unloaded her gun, shoved it to the bottom of her duffel, and didn’t look at it again until nearly a year later when Sam Winchester called in her blood debt.

Failure upon failure.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Her own face was wet, cold, but she kept her hand pressed to the glass. “I love you.” Then Aaron was gone, and she was left in the empty room, her stricken reflection gazing back at her. Alone. 

_ Yeah, that makes sense _ , she thought.  _ One last breath, in then out. I can do this. One last chance to get it right. _

She raised the gun.

Before she could draw back the hammer, a hand shot across her field of vision, closing around her wrist and pulling her around. The gun fell from her grip as she reflexively shoved at her attacker. She jerked to the side, her lips drawing back in a desperate snarl, and struck with her free hand again.

“Miriam, stop! It’s me!”

Sam’s frantic voice reached her through a storm of anguish, and she stilled in his grasp. He kept his hold on her forearm, his face flushed with confusion and dismay. They stared at each other, panting, for a long, loaded pause before Sam finally broke the silence.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Maybe he was apologizing for leaving so much out before asking this of her. Maybe he was apologizing for asking this of her at all. Maybe he was expressing empathy at her whole situation. Whatever the reason, Miriam’s heart began to calm at his words. Her expression must have relaxed because Sam’s shoulders slumped as he let out a breath and released her arm.

“I called to check in before the priest started his ritual, and your phone went straight to voicemail. I got back here as fast as I could. What-”

Miriam drew back her fist, catching Sam across his cheek, snapping his face to the side. She felt this punch like she hadn’t felt any of the times she hit Dean, and it shocked her arm all the way up to her shoulder. It hurt like hell, and she felt relief spreading through her abdomen.

“We need to talk.”

Sam straightened and turned back to her, his face comically stunned. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before clamping his lips shut. His eyes clenched shut, and he sucked in a steadying breath as he pinched the bridge of his nose with his good hand. Then he opened his eyes and gave her a tense, tight-lipped smile. 

“Yeah. We do. Hungry?”

…

Neither of them knew the best place to start, so, as they began assembling some sandwiches, Miriam simply began updating Sam on everything that had gone down since his departure. She figured there wasn’t much point in hiding anything that had happened; Dean would probably tell Sam anyway, if for no other reason than to get under both their respective skins.

Recalling the order of events was difficult, she realized, and when she added up how little time had actually passed, she was shocked. 

_ It felt like at least a week _ , she thought. 

Sam managed to hold his tongue through her entire recounting, though his face had gone through the full spectrum of reds and purples when she’d told him about the nightmares. When she got to her very last encounter with his brother, Sam nearly cut off his finger along with the cheese he was slicing. 

The choking noise coming from his mouth didn’t do anything to alleviate her concern.

After he caught his breath and chugged down the glass of water Miriam provided, he and Miriam moved over to the long table, sitting side by side. Miriam didn’t know about Sam, but she didn’t particularly feel like making eye contact with the younger Winchester just now, even if his coloring was gradually returning to normal.

Though both of them needed the fuel, neither Sam nor Miriam seemed particularly inclined to eat.

“Your turn,” Miriam said, unable to stand yet another bout of long, uncomfortable silence. “You left me with zero clue and almost as little prep. What the hell, Sam, you and I are supposed to be the smart ones. What’s going on with Dean? This ritual?”

Sam’s eyebrows lowered, and he straightened, all set to put her off or argue, but he was cut off by the slam of her fist on the table. Their plates clanged, jittering dangerously close to the edge.

“Dammit, Sam, my life is literally on the line here! I don’t care about your bruised pride, I don’t care about your stupid secrets. You called me here, you exposed me to that demon with barely any warning at all. Tell me the truth, and don’t you dare try to bullshit me.”

She watched the wind drain from Sam’s metaphorical sails. His shoulders slumped as he propped his forehead up in his good hand.

“You’re right, of course you’re right. I’m sorry. Let me just...Okay, yeah. But it’s gotta be a summarized version, otherwise we’ll be here all night.”

He offered her a fragile half-smile, and though she didn’t return it, she relented enough to drop her scowl. 

“A while back, Dean got something called the Mark of Cain. Yes, the mark on his arm, and yes,  _ the _ Cain. From the Bible. Long story very, very short. It ate away at him. Made him want,  _ need _ to hurt, to kill. There was this old weapon, the First Blade, and we needed it to end this huge threat. And then…He...Dean died. I brought him back here, carried him…”

His voice trailed off, his lips working hard as his neck and shoulders tensed. He squeezed his eyes shut, and Miriam reached out, tentatively laying her hand on his arm. He huffed out a sharp breath and continued.

“And then he came back, but as a demon. He took off with...another demon, and they were gone for weeks. I hunted him, I never gave up on him. I...did some really terrible-”

Sam stopped, his lips pressed together so hard they turned white. He steeled himself and looked over, meeting Miriam’s eyes for the first time since they’d started talking. 

“I did what I had to, to get my brother back, and I will keep doing exactly that.”

There wasn’t much she could argue against that. She would have preferred more details about exactly what terrible things Sam had done, but Sam’s transgressions were irrelevant to their current situation. He would have to face his own consequences eventually, and her getting the dirty gossip now was not priority.

“So that mark on Dean’s arm more or less turned him into a demon,” Miriam asked, not sure what else to say.

Sam nodded, picking at the crust of his bread. “It was changing him even before he died, but it brought him back. I’m not sure it will actually let him die,” he added. 

“And the ritual? How’d you even find out about it?”

Sam looked down at his plate again and sighed. “Okay, again, summary. We needed to cure a demon in order to complete a trial.” He held up a hand to forestall Miriam’s question, and she sighed.

“I told you, here all night. I don’t have that kind of energy right now. Anyway, we found out the Men of Letters had created a ritual to cure a demon without damaging the host body. I had to find a hospital with the right kind of priest, get the blood blessed. There’s a spell, and I have to inject Dean with the blood. It’s not the most pleasant way to spend a weekend, but it’s my only shot to get my brother back now.”

Sam let out his breath, rolling both of his shoulders back with a painful popping noise. He glanced over at Miriam again, chewing on the inside of his lip as if he were struggling with a decision.

“Miriam, I’m sorry. For all of it. I knew about Aaron, I should have thought…I just...It’s Dean, my brother. People are hurt because of me. I hurt...tortured. I tortured a lot of demons, but I had to. I couldn’t-”

“I get it, Sam. I get all of it, even leaving the admittedly big details out. I’m not happy about it,” she added, narrowing her eyes at him. He had the decency to look properly embarrassed. “And you’d damned well better not leave something that vital out again. But, then again, it’s not like I was one hundred percent honest with you, either. If I had been at all smart, I could have told you I was in no shape.”

“How are you now?” he asked. “How are you really?” 

“I’m...here,” she answered. “Dean really got into my head, like you said he would, but all that mess was there to begin with. He just...he knew how to stir it all up, knew exactly what to say to get me to react how he wanted. And I did.”

They sat for several moments, lost in the memories of their own transgressions. Sam finally let out a breath and stood. He rested his fingertips on the table, his injured arm fidgeting in the sling. His jaw clenched, tension in every line of his rigid stance.

“Miriam, I don’t know if this is going to work. I’ve only done this once before, and it definitely started to work then, but I didn’t get to finish the ritual. I already gave Dean the first dose before I came to find you, and he reacted differently than I was expecting. It’s going to take several more doses, but...look, I know I have no right to ask anything else of you…”

He trailed off, lips trembling as he pinched them shut. His eyes were shining suddenly, red-rimmed and small, and he looked terribly vulnerable. He glanced up at the ceiling, clearing his throat. Miriam’s heart twisted, and she stood, reaching out to lay her hand on his shoulder.

“We can back each other up,” she said, adding, “but I can’t be alone with him again.”

Sam shook his head, unable to meet her eyes. She continued.

“You need to know I wasn’t magically fixed when you stopped me firing that gun, Sam. I haven’t changed my mind. You need help, and that much I can do, as long as you’ve got my back. But after this, I’m done. With everything.”

Sam’s face was stricken as his fingers tightened around hers. “Miriam, you can’t-”

“It’s not your call, Sam. I’m not your brother; it’s not up to you to fix me.”

Sam flinched as if she’d struck him physically, but she didn’t relent, and eventually, he nodded, though reluctantly. She released his shoulder and busied herself clearing up the food neither of them had been able to stomach after all.

_ Time to face the music _ , she thought randomly. At Sam’s questioning glance, she nodded and followed him from the kitchen. They stopped just outside the dungeon, and Sam raised his eyebrows at her.

“Are you sure? After what you and he...you don’t have to go in here. I can…”

“You don’t know exactly what this treatment is doing to him, you said it yourself,” she reminded him. “You’re here now, he’ll have to split his focus. We’re stronger together. Let’s get this over with.”

Sam nodded, steeled himself, and stepped inside. Miriam followed suit; the moment she stepped through the door, though, she could feel a slight but palpable difference. The pull to go to Dean was diminished. The hunger she had to admit she still felt when she looked at him was duller, less fierce.

The demon in question also seemed a little more subdued, a little more cautious. Dean straightened from his tired slump, green eyes narrowing at the two of them. He frowned, evincing disapproval as he clicked his tongue at Miriam.

“You know, when I didn’t hear a gunshot, I thought maybe you’d just found a quieter way to do it. Figured somebody couldn’t possibly be that big a failure at absolutely everything, but here you are.”

Sam busied himself pulling a huge, blood-filled syringe from a cooler on the table as Dean continued to eye Miriam. She picked up the remaining flask from the table, making a mental note to ask Sam if he had more holy water stashed somewhere in the bunker. She unscrewed the cap and turned to face Dean.

“Or maybe you just need another push,” Dean said quietly. His eyebrows lowered as he smiled straight at her, leaning forward earnestly. “I could scratch that itch all day. Get rid of Sammy, here, and we can-”

She flicked the holy water in his face, and Sam went in with the needle as Dean flinched back. Her heart stuttered as Dean cursed and growled in pain, his breath coming in short, distressed bursts. His skin flushed, darker than the last time she’d splashed him. Sweat broke out across his forehead as he thrashed against the ropes, his tendons standing out harshly under his flesh.

“Sam…” Miriam started, but she didn’t know what warning she should give. The draw she felt from Dean was definitely less now, so the blood was doing something to the demon aspect of him. Dean didn’t look like he was being cured of anything, though. 

He looked like he needed help.

“I don’t know what else to do but keep going,” Sam whispered, half to himself. 

“You could start by letting me out of these goddamn cuffs,” Dean groaned, his head rolling back as he struggled to catch his breath. “You’re killin’ me here, Sammy.”

Sam started towards Dean, but Miriam grabbed his arm. He turned tortured eyes on her, but she shook her head, urging him silently towards the door. Dean might be genuinely in distress, but if what Sam told her was true, they couldn't do anything to help him except continue the treatment. 

Sam resisted for one more heartbeat before allowing himself to be led from the dungeon. Miriam resolutely shut the door behind them and turned to Sam.

“You did it.  _ We _ did it. Now we’ve just got to do it another half dozen times or so.”

Sam snorted, running a shaking hand up his face and back through his hair. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“What now?” she asked. A yawn escaped her before she could stuff it down, and Sam paused, taking in her drooping frame and exhausted stance.

“I think somebody could use a nap,” he said with a tired smile. She raised her eyebrow sharply, and he held up his hand in mock surrender. “I know, I know, we both do. We’ll take it in turns. I’ll stay up while you sleep, then swap out.”

She hesitated, torn between the aching exhaustion wearing her down and the fear of what always came when she slept.

“Sam, I don’t want to ask this of you, but I…I already had nightmares, and since I came here, they’ve gotten worse. Could you...god, I feel so pathetic asking, but could you sit with me? Not on the bed or anything creepy, and I get it if you need to prep something else for Dean’s treatment, but…”

She stopped, breathed, and forced the words past the lump in her throat. “I need to not be alone right now.”

If Sam had done anything but nod and take her hand, Miriam was pretty sure she would have disintegrated from shame. Instead, he simply led the way back to her room and pulled a chair up beside the head of the bed.

He sat silently, eyes downcast as she splashed water on her face and let her hair down. Miriam kicked off her shoes with growing anxiety, but when she lay down on top of the covers and closed her eyes, she felt Sam’s rough, warm hand closed over her own.

“I get it, Miri. I’ve got your back.”

She fell straight into a dead sleep, and for the first time in a year, she didn’t have a single dream.

…

**_To be continued._ **


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in tags; please heed warnings.

“Miriam.”

Sam’s voice was low, gentle, and she swam slowly towards it through a sea of welcome darkness.

“You don’t have to wake up yet. I’m going to give Dean his next dose and call Cas to check in. I’ll wake you up to switch out when I’m done.”

“Nrrrphh...should...go with you…”

He chuckled as he squeezed and released her hand. 

“I’ll be quick, I promise. Rest; you need it. I’ll wake you as soon as I get back.”

“Mmmph.”

Sam, however, was not what Miriam woke to. A low, urgent siren cut through the cushioned layers of Miriam’s sleep like a buzz saw through cotton. She was awake in an instant, rolling off the bed with reflexes born of experience, and she’d located her gun before her eyes were even fully open. A red light alternately dimmed and brightened in time with the buzzer.

Miriam assumed something had gone terribly wrong, and this was some sort of warning system built into the bunker. While she didn’t know exactly what had happened, she was pretty sure she knew the basics.

Dean was out, and Sam was far from in control of the situation.

Failure or not, however, she was first and foremost a hunter. She choked down her rising panic and forced herself to think. First: stay or go?

If she stayed in her room, there was literally nowhere to hide. The door was heavy but was also made of wood, not metal, so it could be broken down or penetrated by something with enough strength.

_ Like a demon _ , she thought. And though Dean didn’t actually know where her room was, since he could hear her when she was asleep, she had to assume he knew she was nearby. She didn’t know Dean would come after her specifically, but she also  had no reason to expect that he wouldn’t. 

Miriam grabbed her flask of holy water, tucked it into the waistband of her leggings. She slipped through the door, padding down the hallway on bare feet, gun at the ready, and made a quick check in the doorway of the dungeon. The cuffs dangled uselessly from the arm of the chair, the ropes in loose coils on the floor. No Sam or Dean.

_ Shit. Where do I even start? _

The bunker was huge. She knew her way to the kitchen, the bathroom, the dungeon, and the exit. She’d seen some extra weapons in the library, but as she didn’t know if any of those were even as effective against a demon as her gun, she couldn’t count on them.

_ On the other hand,  _ she thought,  _ more weapons were better than fewer. Anything to slow Dean down and give Sam time to get him back in the cuffs. _

She crept towards the entrance to the bunker, her gun aimed and leading the way. Her heart raced as her adrenaline spiked, but she forced her legs to move smoothly, her arms to stay steady. She wasn‘t going to let Sam down again; all she had to do was find Dean and slow him down.

Surely she could do that.

After a minute that felt like hours, Miriam stood with her back against the wall, working up the nerve to turn the corner. The entrance with its huge map table was just through the open doorway on her left. If she remembered correctly, she simply had to make another left and the library was on the other side of a conference table. A few quick steps, ten or fifteen seconds at most, and she would be at the weapons. 

The trouble was, she couldn’t make her feet move. She’d been fine up til now; terrified, but functional. But the closer she’d gotten to this doorway, the more her fear increased until she was frozen, feeling as though she’d plunged into a pool of ice water.

Then she heard him over the blaring of the alarm.

“Sammy! You’re just making this worse for yourself, man! Oh, by the way, you can, uh...blame yourself for me gettin’ loose.” 

Dean’s voice carried clearly across the room, and she could feel him getting closer. He sounded much better than he had the last time she'd seen him, and his tone was casual, amused.

“All that blood you pumped into me to make me human, well…” He paused, laughing to himself, and Miriam’s knees almost buckled. She closed her eyes, bit her lip, and for the first time in so long, prayed for help.

Dean spoke again.

“The less demon I was, the less the cuffs worked. And that devil’s trap—well, I just walked right across it. It smarted. But still…”

Dean trailed off, and over the buzz of the alarm, Miriam heard a metallic scraping noise and then nothing. She tightened her jaw, drawing on every reserve of courage she had left, and spun to her left, turning and aiming where she’d last heard Dean.

Before she could fire, a hammer smashed down on her outstretched wrists. Pain exploded up her arms, her gun went flying from fingers which no longer responded, and she sucked in a ragged, agonized breath. A hand clamped over her mouth before she could choke out the scream, and she was jerked backward off her feet. 

She crashed against the wall with a bone-rattling thud, her head bouncing off the hard surface. Tasting blood, she slid to the floor, dazed, black spots popping in her vision. Before she could pull in a breath, much less react, she was yanked up into a sitting position and propped against the wall.

“Heya, sweetheart. Have a good nap? I missed you.”

Dean’s face swam into view, green eyes bright with pleasure. She moaned as he leaned down, letting some of his weight push on her ruined wrists. He ran his nose up the side of her face, breathing in and sighing almost regretfully. When she turned away from him, he jerked her face back to his with a disapproving growl.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, little girl.”

She was ashamed of the tears streaming from her eyes, but she was paralyzed with shock, only just hanging on to consciousness. He glared hungrily at her, his expression stern, then lunged forward suddenly. His tongue pressed into the split on her lip where her teeth had cut through. He sucked hard at the wound, and an anguished wail clawed its way up from her gut. He hummed deep in his throat, enamored of her agony as he leaned harder on her wrists. 

She tried to lift her hands, shove him away, but the wave of pain that shot up her arms sent her head spinning as spots swam across her darkening vision.

“I could spend all night eating you up, Miri, but Daddy’s got a playdate with little Sammy. You and I will have to reschedule.” 

Dean rose, rolling his neck and stretching his shoulders. He moved to leave, and she was finally able to draw a full breath without gasping. Before she could even begin to struggle to her feet, he turned back, and the smile on his face froze her blood solid.

“On second thought, wait right here for me, sweetheart. I promised you some flaying, and I’m nothing if not a man of my word. I’ll be right back for you.”

Then his boot slammed down on her kneecap, and Miriam’s world erupted in an inferno of ripping, crushing agony before disintegrating into black.

…

“You look worried, fellas.”

Sam and Castiel glanced at each other, then back at Dean, neither sure if they could trust the transition. Sure, the black in his eyes had dissolved, but still…

Sam flicked his flask of holy water, liberally splashing Dean’s face. All three men collectively breathed easier when they realized his skin remained unblemished and whole. Sam’s face almost crumpled with relief, and he gave his brother a shaky, genuine smile.

“Welcome back, Dean.”

Dean’s face flickered from shock to relief to concern so fast Sam almost couldn’t keep up. Then Dean spoke, and Sam’s blood ran cold.

“Why isn’t Miriam with you? Did neither of you find her?”

“No, I was trying to lead you away from her, and-” Sam broke off as horror washed over his brother's face. “Dean, what did you do?”

“Cas, get back to the library now! Find Miriam, she-” The angel disappeared, and Dean strained against the ropes.

“Sam, get me loose, now!”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings are in the tags; please heed the warnings.

Miriam swam back to consciousness as gentle fingers probed her face. The pain flared once, a bright flame that consumed every cell of her body before extinguishing all at once. She gasped, her lungs unrestricted and easy, and grabbed at the closest thing she could reach. Her wrists were whole again, functional, and she sat bolt upright, her eyes wide and wild as fear shot through her gut. Strong arms, for some reason clad in a tan trench coat, supported her as her head swam crazily. 

“Miriam, I presume. I’ve got you, everything’s alright now. Dean is cured. You’re safe.” She looked into his eyes and saw the sincerity and strength there. She nodded slowly, willing her heart rate to calm. She took slow, measured breaths until the spinning stopped. 

“Miriam!” Then Sam was in the doorway, rushing over to help her up, Dean following closely behind. What with Sam and the other man already pulling Miriam to her feet, Dean stood a safe distance away, unsure of his reception. 

Miriam thought this wise of him. 

She wobbled unsteadily long enough that Sam insisted on taking her back to her room to rest. She was too wiped out to argue and gladly accepted his support. She glanced back at Dean as Sam led her from the room, and she was startled at the depth of sorrow and pain she saw there. 

Then she turned the corner with Sam and realized the pull she felt from Dean, that insatiable hunger for the darkness, was almost completely gone. 

Almost.

…

Miriam lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, resolutely ignoring Sam’s instructions to sleep. Though she doubted she’d have any new visits from the demon, she could feel her other nightmares waiting at the edge of her consciousness, with a few new additions from her recent misadventures with the Winchesters to add a little spice to the mix.

A soft knock on her door pulled her out of her miserable reverie, and she sat up slowly. She wasn’t in pain, the angel (Castiel, Sam had explained) had healed her completely, but she was unsteady with exhaustion and shock.

“Come in, Dean,”

He entered hesitantly, still unsure of his welcome. He’d showered, shaved, and changed into a t-shirt, sweats, and a gray bathrobe. She had to admit he looked a lot better for it. Considering how appealing she thought he’d looked before, that was saying something. 

They studied each other for a long moment, seeing each other as they really were for the first time in nearly a decade. Dean still stood tall and firm, wearing his “comfy clothes” better than most models wore a suit, but she could see the weight of the world dragging at his shoulders, staining his expression with grief and regret. 

But there was less ferocity to him now. He’d lost the feral hunger, the malevolence of his earlier presence that had drawn her in so strongly. She’d never call Dean Winchester soft, not in a thousand years, but this Dean, the real human Dean, was appealing to her in a way she hadn’t expected. Despite everything that had happened, he still exuded a sense of strength and confidence that had little to do with his appearance and more to do with a natural gravity that spoke of protection and safety rather than danger and oblivion.

_ Then again _ , she thought,  _ maybe I can just see the light on the other side of the darkness now. Maybe that said something good for the both of them. _

But it hurt, looking into that light. Looking away from the darkness without shielding herself meant admitting that life without Aaron wasn’t just possible, that it was necessary. 

She’d taken care of him for so long, leaned on him without realizing she was doing so. Now her universe was off-balance in the worst way, vertigo without promise of reprieve. Every day felt like freefall, and she hated that swooping sensation that tore through her gut whenever she opened her eyes and realized he wasn’t just one bed over.

But he  _ was _ gone. And she wasn’t. 

And now she had to decide what she was going to do with those facts, because she couldn’t continue her dim, half-existence anymore, no matter how much easier it was than facing an Aaron-less life.

And right now, in this moment, that meant addressing her own personal ex-demon.

Miriam offered him a half-smile and indicated the chair by her bedside. He wavered, his jaw working as his frown deepened, but she let him have his internal debate without interruption. After a moment, he made up his mind and sat heavily in the chair, elbows resting on the arms, hands dangling over his lap. He glared down at his socked feet as if angry they weren’t supplying him with the right conversation starter.

“How are you feeling?”

He started at her question and turned incredulous eyes on her, mouth gaping.

“How am  _ I _ feeling? I nearly killed you, and you’re worried about...Miriam, god, I...I…”

“I know,” she said. He dropped his face into his palms, fingers digging hard into his forehead. His hands strained, veins standing out starkly under his skin, and her heart broke for him.

Dean was a good hunter, a good brother, a good  _ man _ . He’d been seized by a literal demon, and if anyone besides possession victims could understand that, maybe even forgive it, it was Miriam. And, miracle of miracles, for once she knew the right thing to do.

She arranged her pillow behind her and reclined. Then she lifted the covers, opened her arms, and cleared her throat.

“Come here.”

He looked up at her with red, confused eyes. He straightened up and opened his mouth, and she knew he was about to refuse, say something manly or defensive, or both. She beat him to the punch.

“We are both done, Dean. I’ve got nothing left. I hurt you, you hurt me, we both did horrible things. Now is not the time to make comparison lists of sins. We’ve got tomorrow to tear ourselves new ones. Answer me one question right now, and you’d damned well better tell me the truth.”

He nodded slowly, watching her with wary eyes. 

“Aren’t you tired, Dean?”

He stared hard at her, waiting for something else, maybe a rebuke or an insult, but when he realized she was finished, he sat for a moment, thinking. Then his shoulders slumped, and he scrubbed his fingers through his hair.

“Exhausted,” he finally answered. 

She nodded.

“Then take your damned robe off and get over here. And keep your hands where I can see them, sir.”

Turns out, Dean Winchester wasn’t too bad at following directions, once properly motivated. 

Dean fit into her shoulder with the perfection of a worn-out child cradled in trusted arms. As his face relaxed, Miriam thought she saw the briefest glimpse of that sweet, carefree little boy in his smiling mother’s arms. 

Something tugged loose in her chest, and she knew then she’d done the right thing by coming here, no matter the damage she’d sustained. She glanced across the room to see Aaron staring back from the mirror. A tiny smile lifted the corner of his mouth. 

“I love you,” she said. She meant so much more, and she knew Aaron understood that. 

Dean shifted in her arms, murmuring something on the edge of dozing, and his frown returned. She moved automatically to smooth her thumb over his furrowed brow, massage the anxious crease that had formed between his eyes. Still drowsing, he nuzzled closer, his freshly shaven cheek sliding over her collarbone. Unable to resist, she pressed her nose to the crown of his head, inhaling softly.

Miriam had done a few hunting  jobs in the Northwest, near the coast, and she’d fallen in love with the forests there. Unbelievably tall trees, disappearing upwards until you almost fell over backwards trying to see the tops. Damp and lush, there was a green, mossy smell that hung in the air and mingled with traces of fresh earth and mist.

Dean smelled as if he’d just stepped out from under those trees. Clean, a hint of cedar, and something warm and spicy. She hesitated, a new kind of want blooming in her chest as she held him close, reveling in his solid heat. She pressed a kiss to his temple and smiled when he curled tighter into her embrace.

“Hands where I can see ‘em, missy,” he murmured, eyes still closed. His arm slid under hers until it curled protectively around her back. “Sleep, Miri. I’ve got you.”

She took a deep breath, and settled into the exhale, resting her cheek against his damp hair.

_ Yeah _ , she thought, a welcome lethargy spreading through her thoughts.  _ You do. _

…

“Sure you don’t want to rest another day or two?” Sam asked. She didn’t have to look up from her packing to know his face was lined with concern. Dean leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, pretending he didn’t want to say the exact same thing.

“Sorry, Sam, another day of rabbit food, and I might starve. Gotta get some meat before I waste away. Dean, you’re welcome to come with if you aren’t worried about ruining your girlish figure.”

Dean barked a laugh from the doorway, and Miriam straightened up in time to see him wipe the smile off his face under the heat of Sam’s stern glare. She grinned, and Dean winked.

“Gonna go pull your car around. Meet you out front?” Without waiting for an answer, Dean straightened and nodded, disappearing from view.

“You really could stay a little longer,” Sam repeated, his voice low and earnest. For the first time since she’d met him, he seemed small, diminished by worry and uncertainty. Dark circles stood out starkly under his eyes, and his entreating smile was probably the weakest she’d ever seen it.

“Sam, I-” she paused, hesitating, then closed the space between them, reached up, and pulled him into a full hug. After a moment, Sam’s good arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her tight against his chest as his head bent down, his nose resting on top of her head. She held him close, waiting for Sam to pull away when he was ready.

“I can’t,” she murmured into his hair. “Not right now. It’s too fresh. I need to...deal with it.  _ Actually _ deal with it,” she added as he leaned back far enough to give her a sharp look. She noticed he didn’t pull completely away from their embrace, though.

“I’m going to figure some things out, I promise. Again, you strong, heroic men didn’t magically fix my issues. But maybe you gave me the push I needed to do that for myself.”

“You’re welcome back here anytime,” Sam said. He pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead and stepped back, releasing her. He gazed down at her face for a moment, and she could see he was choosing his next words carefully. 

“I’m glad you’re going to...deal with it. I get what you’re working through. Not that I’m a paragon of mental health, but I’ve been there. A couple of times. If you ever want or need to talk about everything that happened, about anything at all, you can call me.”

Miriam felt a mischievous smile stretching across her face. “Everything? Well, Sam, when you were gone, there was this one thing that Dean did in one of my nightmares that-”

“Not everything!” Sam yelped, and she laughed, feeling the ever-present knot in her chest loosen just a little more. He chuckled, shaking his head, and squeezed her hand. 

“Don’t lose my number, Miriam. I’ve... _ We’ve _ got your back.”

…

“Sure you don’t want to stay for another round of Sam’s ‘queen-wah’ salad?” Dean smirked. His green eyes sparkled in the sunlight, and she was surprised at the pleasurable twinge she felt upon receiving that smile. 

“Get your ass off my car, Winchester,” she ordered, feigning exasperation. He pushed up from the hood and opened the back door, lifting the duffel from her hands and tossing it in the back seat.

“Where ya headed?” Dean asked, sticking his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. He stared at the ground between them, and she couldn’t help but smile. After all they’d been through, even after chastely sharing a bed for the last three nights, she felt awkward around him, too, though both were too stubborn to admit it aloud.

“Maybe Washington state or Oregon, check out some of the rainforests. The couple of times we had jobs over that way, walking around under all those giant trees made my issues seem pretty small. Could help me put some things in perspective. Anyway, I’ve got some time off saved up. I think I’ve earned a real vacation.”

He finally met her eyes, and the corner of his mouth turned up. He took a step closer.

“Yeah? Sounds pretty...majestic.” He dodged her blow easily, grinning. “I’m kidding. Some time off sounds pretty damn good, come to think of it. Don’t really remember what that’s like. It’s one disaster after another around here.”

“I kinda got that feeling,” Miriam said, pushing the back door shut. She stepped up to him, holding her arms open in invitation. Though he still hesitated, in the end, he relented and allowed her to pull him into a close hug that sent little flutters through her stomach. Just as she started to pull back, Dean’s arms tightened, holding her against his chest.

“We both need to take some time,” she said quietly. He nodded, turning his face inwards, pressing his lips to her temple. “We’ve got a lot of baggage to sort through and shit to deal with and other metaphors about mentally healing. Darkness to yank out by the roots and all that.”

He pulled back, his face drawn with concern. “Miriam, I need you to know. Those dreams you had, I didn’t...I could see them all whenever you came inside the trap.” His complexion darkened, and if she didn’t know better, Miriam would have thought Dean was actually blushing.

“But I didn’t send them to you. When you were outside the dungeon, outside the devil’s trap, I couldn’t do that.”

She nodded slowly, feeling some of the sunlight's warmth leeching away. She’d come to that conclusion herself, after listening to some conversations over the last couple of days between the boys and their guardian angel. 

“I know. And that’s something I’m going to have to work through. There’s darkness in me, and it really, really liked the darkness I found in you.”

They both glanced significantly down at his right arm, their eyes drawn to the dark, ugly mark, before looking up again.

“I just...wanted it to be easy, like you, the demon you, said. I was, I  _ am _ so tired, and I just wanted to be done.” She could say the words now, as she couldn’t say them only days ago. 

_ Such a simple thing to say _ , she thought,  _ and I had to nearly die to admit it _ .

“Awfully strong drug for any hunter,” Dean agreed, and though she hated that he knew the feeling well enough to understand, part of her was not-so-secretly glad that for the first time in months, she no longer felt alone in her pain.

“But I can work through it. And I think you can, too. I have no clue how, for either of us, but I’m willing to work on it if you are.”

He nodded slowly, and his eyes flicked to her lips for just a moment before his eyebrows raised questioningly. He looked ready to be rejected, braced for her dismissal, but for the life of her, she couldn’t think of a single decent reason to do so.

This time, the only pull she felt was Dean’s arms drawing her closer.

The kiss was soft, simple, and sweet. His hands, scarred and so gentle, slid over her jaw, threading into her hair. He tilted her face to the side, finding a better angle for both of them, and her hands found their way to his waist, tugging him further into her space. After a moment, they broke apart. Dean’s eyes were still closed as she stretched up to kiss his forehead.

“We can work on that, too,” Miriam said. Dean licked his lips, swallowed, and nodded as he straightened. They released their hold on each other reluctantly, and Miriam slid into the driver’s seat before she did something irrational like change her mind.

She cranked the car, stared out the windshield, and sighed. She had to go, needed some time and space to work through her thankfully no-longer-literal demons, but…

She really wanted to come back.

“Hey, Dean,” she said suddenly. He dropped a hand to the hood of her car, leaning down so he could see her through the open window. “You like cowboy movies?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You ever seen  _ The Quick and the Dead _ ?”

His face transformed from sad to wondering to glee in less than a second. “Wild West shootout, Sharon Stone at her hottest, Gene Hackman at his bad ass-est?”

Miriam giggled. “That’s not a word, but yeah. Got a copy?”

“No, but I can get one.”

She smiled, feeling warm and light down to her toes. “Give me a month or two, try to take some time off yourself. Call me when you’ve got a copy of the movie, and maybe we can have a movie night. I’ll bring the popcorn.”

The warmth of the kiss he brushed across her cheek lingered for hours.


End file.
